


Forbidden Fruit

by amyoatmeal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Humor, Art, Art History, Artist Castiel (Supernatural), Author Is Sleep Deprived, Balthazar & Castiel (Supernatural) Friendship, Balthazar (Supernatural) is a Little Shit, Benny Lafitte & Dean Winchester Friendship, Bipolar Dean Winchester, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Blow Jobs, But Neither is Dean, Castiel (Supernatural) is Bad at Feelings, Castiel Has a Cat, Castiel is Not Innocent, Castiel is Not a Morning Person, Castiel is Older Than Dean Winchester, Charlie Bradbury & Dean Winchester Friendship, College Student Dean Winchester, Crush at First Sight, Dean Winchester Has a Cat Allergy, Dean Winchester's First Time With a Man, Dean in Panties, Dean is In Over His Head, Dean is a Little Shit, Drunk Castiel, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, Frottage, Glitter, Grumpy Castiel, Hand Jobs, High Castiel, High Dean Winchester, Highly Flawed Characters, Hurt Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Jealous Castiel, Jealous Dean Winchester, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Lapdance, M/M, Mental Instability, Minor Aaron Bass/Dean Winchester, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Misunderstood Dean Winchester, Morning After, Mutual Pining, Non-Consensual Touching, Obsessive Behavior, Openly Gay Castiel (Supernatural), PB&Js, POV Alternating, POV Castiel, POV Dean Winchester, Past Balthazar/Castiel, Pillow Talk, Professor Castiel, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Sculpture, Seductive Dean Winchester, Sexual Tension, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy Cuddles, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smut, Stripper Dean Winchester, Student Dean Winchester, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Twink Dean Winchester, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Balthazar/Castiel, castiel is in over his head, gratuitous mentions of fruit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2019-06-19 15:37:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 79,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15513021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyoatmeal/pseuds/amyoatmeal
Summary: Castiel Novak is a respectable, if not a little boring, professor at his university.  He lives a comfortable, financially stable life with his cat in his modestly-sized apartment.  It would appear he has everything he needs, including an over-eager friend and colleague, but  when fate tempts him with a seemingly familiar new student by the name of Dean Winchester, Castiel's comfortable life threatens to get turned on its head and things start to get a little juicy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I want to take a moment before you begin to explain some of the tags: 
> 
> This fic contains multiple instances of dubious consent between Castiel and Dean. They are tagged as such because of the circumstances they are under, and sometimes, one or the other is under the influence during these moments. 
> 
> There are elements of dubcon shifting to noncon between Dean and other unnamed characters due to the nature of his job in this story.
> 
> This fic deals with mental health issues in a way that are not explicitly any one thing because I've chosen to write about them in a way that makes them people first. They aren't their disorders. Castiel is a bit of a narcissist and this fic gives a very in depth perspective of being in a state of limerence. (an unhealthy, obsessive form of a crush to put it simply).
> 
> I will specify that I began writing this with the notion that Dean Winchester is a person with bipolar disorder, should that explain is oftentimes erratic and sometimes problematic behavior. But I will stress that the Dean in this fic is only 18 and has a very toxic past, he isn't aware of his own disorder, and since the story is not finished, I can't promise he will be diagnosed, unless i end up writing a timestamp epilogue when all is said and done.
> 
> If you have questions, don't hesitate to comment or find me on tumblr under the same username! Hope you enjoy it, and as always kudos and comments forever appreciated.
> 
> Also, I decided recently that writing multiple fics at once wasn't enough torture, so I decided to make some art for them as well. The art will appear sporadically and retroactively... probably because I'm weird like that and never know when art inspiration will strike nor from what.

**_“If I had not created heaven, I would create it for you alone.”_ **

It was his last class of the day: a one hour seminar on Roman Sculpture. One more hour and the first week of classes could be marked off in his planner.

It was also Friday. An Art History course. An easy credit.

After carefully arranging his notes on the podium, Castiel pulled his laptop from its black leather carrier and began to search for the appropriate slides for his planned lecture as his students filed in at random intervals. Castiel hadn't really learned any of their names yet, but he figured he would wait till the add/drop period ended before bothering. Checking the wall clock, he noted it was about five minutes past the start time and decided whatever stragglers were late would have to make due or find him in his office hours after class.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted, making his way over to turn out the lights by the classroom door. “I'm going to assume you all read the assigned pages last night.” Castiel waited for any sign of assenting groans before continuing with a nod, having to trust they were telling the truth. “Good. Continuing our discussion from our last session, today we will be discussing the sculptor Gian Lorenzo Bernini. In particular, this piece completed in 1652.” He presented the first slide, entitled ‘The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa’ which elicited a few immature, yet anticipated snickers around the auditorium. “Come on guys, you're all considered adults somehow,” he attempted a joke, but still had to suppress an eyeroll. 

The marble sculpture depicted Saint Teresa of Avila in the throes of spiritual ecstasy; head thrown back, mouth parted, eyes half-lidded. Having been visited by an angel, she’d described being repeatedly penetrated in the heart by his golden spear and overcome by the warmth of its fiery tip. Okay, maybe Castiel knew why they would laugh, but regardless it was still considered Bernini’s masterpiece and he was still considered one of the best Baroque sculptors, so it earned a lecture in unto itself. 

He was half way through describing the controversy of depicting the divine imagery of being touched by God through the sexualized nature of someone mid-orgasm when his classroom door creaked open. 

“You're late,” he said, not bothering to spare a glance from his notes. “You’ll have to find a friend or visit my office hours.” A delayed, murmured “sorry” was the only response as the student found a seat in the back row.

The lecture carried on in a similar vein, only stopping briefly to answer a rare question about the Baroque style, until the clock hands signaled it was time for him to give it a rest. With that, Castiel bid his students adieu, reminding them again of their reading and an upcoming paper, before packing away his belongings and heading back to his corner office in the dank basement.

^^^

It was a small office, stuffed to the brim with dusty and torn volumes on sculpture and other mediums. All things Castiel considered necessary, but in reality he hadn't cracked most of their spines in years. He still liked to thumb through some of their pages when he had the spare time though to justify keeping them around at all. 

With a prolonged huff, he loosened his necktie and made a mug of chamomile tea to relax his muscles. Placing the mug on top of the closest pile of textbooks, he watched the steam lazily curl and dissipate as he sunk back into his squeaky, padded desk chair. He could nod off just like this. He had many times before even, but he had a syllabus to look over and assignments to grade from his studio course. The prospect did nothing to entice his eyelids to remain open and he found himself dozing until a soft rapping at his door alerted him he was no longer alone.

“Professor Novak?” The deep voice was shy and hesitant, but also curious, as though they knew they were interrupting something, but couldn't pull themselves away.

He rubbed back the blurred edges of sleep, before beckoning, “Yes, come in,” through pinched lids. If he was this exhausted after a week, he had no idea what he would be like come December.

The voice cleared its throat. “Sorry I was late, I was, uh, actually hoping to add your class and need your signature to get it all official,” they explained, throat clicking.

Castiel opened his eyes to paper being thrust at his face. Mindlessly, he snatched the form from the student’s grasp and haphazardly searched for a pen atop his cluttered workspace. It was a eureka moment when he managed to find his favorite blue fountain pen amongst the sea of paperwork. Reading glasses now in place, he gave the paper a quick once over, despite being familiar with it, before he started to scrawl his standard signature on the bottom line, but the student had inched closer and was now within Castiel’s personal space, looming over him and craning his neck to read the blue ink.

“J. C. Novak,” he stated, thoughtfully. “What's the ‘C’ stand for?”

His full name was James Castiel Novak, but that wasn’t something this random student needed to know. Castiel side-eyed the abstract visage of the tall young man before glancing back at the form in his hand in order to find the student’s name. “It stands for see you next Tuesday... Mr. Winchester. On time, I hope.” 

Realizing he just made a crude joke, Castiel flushed a light shade of pink. He swiveled around in his chair to put some distance between them as he reached out to return the form to his new student. Upon doing so, he had now registered the person with whom he had been speaking also had a corporeal form, including a face that looked like it leapt straight off of one of Da Vinci’s sketchbook pages. All symmetry and soft angles. A perfect balance of masculine and feminine; a delicate nose, sweeping eyelashes, full lips set against the hard lines of testosterone-induced musculature. He was lithe, but athletic. Smooth muscles and tanned arms. All, but hairless, with the exception of a light shade of stubble along his sharp jaw. It occurred to Castiel then that he was ogling this young man and for a million reasons he couldn't defend right now he needed to stop. Awkwardly, he cleared his throat and reached for his tea as an excuse to be doing literally anything else.

The young man simply chuckled like he hadn’t noticed a thing, or was pretending not to for Castiel’s benefit. “It’s a date,” he said, retracting the paper from Castiel’s grip, something playing at the corners of his full lips.

“Right.” Castiel nearly choked on his tea. “Good day, Mr. Winchester.”

After placing the form into his backpack, he turned and headed back to the door. Pausing briefly with a hand on the frame, he looked back at Castiel who had attempted to look busy by shuffling his mess around. “You know,” he started, hesitantly again, but once Castiel looked up from his desk to meet his eyes his confidence seemed to bolster with the unease he must have seen there, “Mr. Winchester is my father. I prefer Dean. One syllable -- easier to call out.” 

That smirk he held back before danced across his face in full force as Castiel willed his mouth to work. It wasn’t technically sexual. At least, it wouldn't have been, were it not for the young man’s self-satisfied expression. Castiel couldn't find an appropriate reply to the inappropriate remark. He should be listing off the moral and ethical rules regarding this behavior to the student in front of him. A simple ‘that’s enough’ would have sufficed, but as it stood he couldn't think of one thing to say, so he choked on his tongue instead.

“Have a nice weekend, Professor,” the young man said, practically beatific, not waiting around for a response. He slapped a palm on the door frame as a parting gesture before leaving altogether.

Castiel could have sworn the little shit winked before he left too, but that seemed to be the least of his concerns. That face and that smirk seemed intimately familiar, yet Castiel couldn't place it. He’d never met a Dean Winchester in his life before that afternoon and Dean Winchester definitely seemed like someone Castiel would remember.

^^^

He worried on his lower lip the whole way home, from the bus stop to his apartment door. Even if he wanted to stop thinking about it, he couldn't. Placing his briefcase down, he fiddled around in his pocket for his key. Upon unlocking the door, his cat was already waiting for him, crying out for his dinner. “Hello to you too, Michelangelo.” Castiel reached down to scruff up the fur behind his ears which was received with a loud, reverberating purr. 

He fed the cat before bothering to feed himself. He didn't have the motivation to cook, honestly. Besides, he felt unbelievably distracted because of that encounter. Not even a hot shower and a lazy orgasm did anything to take his mind off it. It was unsettling how much this was bothering him and not just because Dean Winchester was undeniably beautiful. What was really bothering him was his behavior. Too friendly, with the presumed confidence that he was allowed to be. Leaning into Castiel’s personal space as though he'd belonged there. 

The idea was maddening; it was niggling at the back of his brain while he scarfed down a sloppily thrown together PB&J and folded his laundry. Prodding him into remembering anything about why that small quirk of lips on a strange, yet bold, young man triggered something inside him.

Suddenly, the left pocket of his pants vibrated as he received an incoming text. Pulling the phone out, he swiped at the screen. It was from his close friend and colleague, Balthazar, who had insisted years ago that they become close for the simple fact they taught in the same department and were both ‘flaming homosexuals’. He was presented with a text message asking if he wanted to get together that weekend and as he began to reply with a negative based entirely on what happened last time, a second bubble appeared ensuring Castiel that he wouldn't take no for an answer. And it was in that simple statement alone that Castiel was flooded with hazy memories of the exact circumstances under which he had known the young man apparently named Dean Winchester and he cursed every vicious god in the sky for whatever he did to deserve this. 

Whatever this was.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> think of this as a stripper 5k nestled ever so lovingly into a professor/student au. dubious consent only for the fact Castiel is under the influence.

**Two weeks earlier**

The apartment buzzer was ringing incessantly before Castiel could even struggle into a pair of fitted jeans. Balthazar had texted him not twenty minutes prior requesting his company to celebrate the last weekend of the summer break which also happened to coincide with Castiel’s thirty-sixth birthday. Whatever that entailed Castiel was loath to find out, but when it came to Balthazar that never quite seemed to matter. He just knew it would require dressing ‘up’ and getting blackout drunk, despite all his protests and rallying for a quiet evening in.

Hopping his way over to the intercom on one denim-clad leg, he pressed the door button long enough for a sloth to crawl through, though knowing Balthazar, he was probably amped up on at least one substance already. He always did this when they went out which is why Castiel always avoided going out in public with him at all. Preemptively opening his apartment door, he went back to his bedroom to change his shirt. Michelangelo lounged on the bed watching as Castiel instinctively went for his white dress shirt, but as if in silent conversation, he decided against it to prevent the next civil war. “You’re right, he will complain” he sighed to the cat. A fitted grey v-neck and his leather motorcycle jacket. The one Balthazar had forced him to buy because it looked ‘hip’, despite Castiel never having ridden a motorcycle at any point in his life.

“Cassie! You look beautiful, darling! Love the jacket.” Balthazar suddenly appeared leaning against his bedroom doorway, arms folded. For whatever reason he was wearing sunglasses inside, after dark no less. Never a good sign; the night was still young.

Castiel peered over his shoulder in the mirror, noting his friend’s less than sober appearance. “I guess I'm not surprised that you're already intoxicated,” he said, disapprovingly, “I don't think your v-neck is low enough either, Bal.” He was surprised he couldn't see his friend’s navel given how much his shirt left to the imagination. Suddenly, he felt over-dressed. 

“Not as low as my standards,” his friend quipped, “Besides, you must be new, I've been riding this wave all week. How do you think I've dealt with going back to work?” Balthazar was returning for the fall semester after having taken a sabbatical somewhere in the south of France. 

“Tenure must be nice,” muttered Castiel, smoothing out the front of his shirt. He couldn't afford to make mistakes, especially not the kind Balthazar made regularly.

He seemed to consider it a moment. Balthazar never liked to admit to aging. “Yes, well, I have an incredibly lush evening planned for us tonight! Why aren't you excited?” Balthazar was exuding excitement enough for the both of them or he was riding some sort of stimulant high. The scales seemed fairly balanced on either side.

“Truthfully, I think I'm too old to be doing any of this,” admitted Castiel, as he gave himself a final once over and straightened out a few errant hairs.

“You are not old, and I'm older than you! Look at me,” he said, arms splayed wide, gesturing down at himself, “I'm doing it and I look fabulous if I do say so myself.”

Castiel hummed in sarcastic agreement, “My point exactly.”

Balthazar rolled his eyes as he crossed the room to plant his hands on Castiel’s shoulders. “It never killed anyone to have a little fun, Cas.”

Castiel’s features filled with healthy skepticism as he avoided leaning into the touch. “That's hardly an accurate statement.”

“True, but it doesn't matter. You're coming out with me and I won't take no for an answer.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a miniscule, plastic zip-lock bag containing a few little, white pills. “Now, let’s get you closer to my level, shall we?” He held the bag out between them.

Castiel stared at it questioningly and then back to his friend. “I'm also too old to be peer-pressured. Besides, I don't need to get worked up, I need to relax.”

Balthazar just rolled his eyes again and shoved the bag back into his pocket. To Castiel’s surprise, he reached into the other pocket and pulled out another bag containing what appeared to be three red gummies. “Students. You know how they are,” he offered in explanation at Castiel’s raised brow. Removing one edible from the bag, he thrust it into Castiel’s slack palm. “Well, go ahead. Don't make me pressure you.”

Castiel eyed the edible in his hand for a moment, contemplating the ramifications, before deciding Balthazar was right and he owed himself a little fun. It was his birthday, after all. He wasn't getting any younger and it was still summer break anyway so he wouldn't be risking turning up late to his classes. Swallowing it down, he figured what was the worst that could happen before Balthazar was excitedly rushing them out the front door of Castiel’s apartment by his coat sleeve.

^^^

“I'm uncomfortable.” Castiel shifted in his hard, unforgiving seat. 

They'd been stuck on the train for almost twenty minutes already. There was a hold up further down the line, or so the voice over the intercom said. To make matters worse, they were apparently old enough to be offered seats by a small group of teenagers while they waited. Because that made Castiel feel so much better about all of this. Two old men sitting on a train, wearing low v-necks, supposedly high on completely different substances, and on their way to drink all of the above away. Castiel found the whole scenario rather pathetic.

“That's because you're supposed to remove the stick before leaving the house.” Balthazar was increasingly more on edge the longer they sat stuck, but Castiel supposed that's what he deserved for taking some sort of mystery upper before they left.

Castiel, on the other hand, wasn't feeling anything. “I don't think it's working,” he decided after a few minutes.

“It will, just wait.”

So he did. Castiel hadn't experimented much with illicit substances so he wasn't even completely sure what he was supposed to be feeling. For all he knew, it very well could've started working.

Balthazar was talking incessantly about the upscale restaurant-turned-lounge that he made arrangements for them to attend. “The Heavenly Host,” he had called it. He was talking too fast for Castiel to pay attention to much of the words; they ended up bleeding together after a while. Castiel just let him ramble. They were probably sat for five minutes more before the train lurched forward, but as soon as it had, the voice over the intercom announced they'd have to disembark at the next stop. They hadn't even made it close to that side of the city.

As the train slowed to a halt again, Balthazar groaned. Given the fact he had spent much of their time waiting talking about his masterful knack for choosing premium locales, this was probably a blow to his ego. They exited the doors amongst the throng of other passengers being kicked to the curb and once they found their bearings Castiel found the nearest street sign. They were near the university.

“It's probably not too far,” he placated. It was probably far enough.

Balthazar checked the time on his phone in frustration. “The reservations are for ten minutes from now! We won't make it there in ten minutes,” he complained, holding the time out to Castiel, as he rolled his eyes.

Castiel just shrugged. He didn't really care where they went, he was fine with just going out to dinner. Food sounded good right about then and his stomach growled in agreement. He was regretting not having eaten before all this. “I don't know what you expect me to do about it. We could always just try walking. It's a nice night.” It really was. There was a slight breeze coming in off the water that only served to make him appreciate his jacket, but otherwise it was pleasant.

Balthazar scoffed at the simple notion, which only further reminded Castiel why, after all this time, they would always just remain friends no matter how many times his friend offered more. He scanned the streets as Castiel walked slowly behind him, taking in the cool night air and the city lights. They were twinkling across the water, almost playfully, and Castiel felt himself smiling. Though, moments later he suddenly felt like he hit a brick wall.

The wall was Balthazar, whom had abruptly stopped two feet in front of him. He absently reached back feeling around to drag Castiel by the front of his shirt over the crosswalk. “Change of plans, Cassie! I know what we're doing!” His eyes were laser focused on the brick facade of an establishment Castiel had never even heard of, which seemed odd given its proximity to their workplace and Balthazar’s proclivity towards drinking establishments. It was called ‘Forbidden Fruit’, as noted by the flashing neon signage depicting a snake biting into an apple.

Hesitantly, he asked, “What's ‘Forbidden Fruit’?” Though he felt he might already know the answer. 

Balthazar cast him a pointed look over his shoulder, as if to say, “don't ask stupid questions”. That's what Castiel was afraid of. He reached his hands up to uncurl Balthazar’s fist from the front of his shirt as he began pulling away. “We can't go in there,” he all, but hissed. “We're well within walking distance to campus! What if someone sees us?” 

His friend just chuckled at his hushed, urgent tone and his ambivalence was working to irritate Castiel that much more. “Then I would say they're just as big of perverts as we are, Cassie! Honestly, you're being paranoid; I think that edible is finally starting to kick in.”

Maybe Castiel was just being paranoid. Maybe the drug was working. But Castiel had thought being high was supposed to calm him down not make him jump at the slightest inkling of foreboding. Was he really just being paranoid? Probably, but he'd also never been to a strip club before either and wasn't sure what to expect. First time for everything, as they say. He stared at the sign, as the snake repeatedly bit into the apple. Over and over on a fluorescent loop. Curiosity and a tinge of something darker got the better of his mental faculties. Drawing in a contentious breath, he released it, exaggeratedly bearing the mark of defeat. He didn't fight that hard, but maybe he should have instead of letting his baser instincts take control.

“After you,” gestured Balthazar towards the open door, pleased grin taking up entirely too much of his face. Castiel could hardly hear him over the swelling of the beat pumping through the opened door, as well as in his own chest. He just rolled his eyes in response, taking another cursory glance in either direction, before entering.

^^^

Something in the back of his mind whispered he was going to regret this, but he tampered the voice down when the bartender handed them both another shot of vodka, slinging them back with ease. Balthazar always said if you couldn't see the calories then it didn't actually count.

The main room of the club was dark; pulsing blue lights casting an ethereal glow to match the tempo of the layered melody of the filler music. There must have been a fog machine hidden somewhere, but the light mist only enhanced the effects of the slow strobing. Everyone’s attention was fixed on the stage, front and center. The main attraction. Apparently, they were just in time to catch the show and the buzzing of the crowd only grew in anticipation as the minutes ticked by. 

Castiel wasn't sure what to expect, having had no basis for comparison. He thought it was all a bit much, and were he not under the influence of at least two substances he might have expressed those sentiments. As it were, all he was capable of doing in the moment was taking it all in. He simultaneously felt his senses were sharpened and dulled. The low roar of the rowdy patrons, the flashy lights, the smell of mixed alcohol. Everything was too much, but with the distinct feeling that he was separated from it all through a thin veil of water. The alcohol wasn't helping anything, but Balthazar insisted, and if Castiel hadn't known it was for an excuse to chat up the remarkably straight bartender, he would be lying to himself. 

“You know he's straight, right?” he asked, slowly. He had registered Balthazar leaning over the bartop to lay his hand on the bartender’s burly forearm. When he looked to his left though, Balthazar was gone and a brief flare of panic spiked through him, unreasonably so. Balthazar was at the ATM machine in the corner withdrawing one dollar bills. Having his friend in his sights again calmed the spike in his heart rate for the time being, despite feeling confused. Castiel couldn't deny any longer that the effects were in fact starting to affect him now. He would be more nervous, if it weren't for the vodka. As the house lights dimmed, the lighting on the stage brightened marginally. An unearthly violet light emanated through the fog as Balthazar appeared by Castiel’s side again, tugging on the sleeve to find a table close to the front.

“Don't leave me again,” warned Castiel lowly, as he took his seat directly in line with the stage.

Balthazar chuckled at how clingy he sounded. “I wouldn't dream of it!”

^^^

They laughed through the first number. ‘It's Raining Men’ accompanied by half naked men carrying hoses should always warrant a fit of hysterics. Castiel feared his eyes might be permanently creased from it, but was completely happy to wipe the tears out of his eyes in doing so. He felt light as a feather and similar to a bucket of molasses simultaneously. He couldn't feel his face, he just knew he was still smiling. It stayed that way through the second, equally corny song choice. Something about riding ponies and being horny with the appropriate prop use of leather riding crops. Castiel actually found the spanking arousing, despite his laughter, but he was never one to publicly display that side of himself, intoxicated or not. It wasn't until the fifth performance did he begin to question that character trademark at all when a silhouetted figure walked out onto the stage carrying a chair of their own. 

The drunken crowd came alive once again, whooping and wolf-whistling for the anonymous figure in the shadows. Anonymous to Castiel, at least; the emcee on the loudspeaker announced the dancer as Damien. Placing the chair in the center, Damien slipped into the seat, head down, one hand clutching the wide brim of his hat, a cane firmly placed between his spread legs.

At once, the bluesy baseline of ‘I Put A Spell On You’ by Screamin’ Jay Hawkins dropped over the speakers, prompting a spotlight to be cast on the dancer. The crowd roared louder as Damien circle-jerked his hips to the saxophone beat off the seat of the chair, suggestively thrusting against the rod between his legs. Castiel could feel the pull of his own groin wanting to meet them. Hooking one thumb under a suspender, he began sliding it precariously up and down his lean torso, then releasing it with a snap. Exaggeratedly shrugging off the straps, he dropped the cane and carressed his hands over his chest, back to the buttons of his shirt to temptingly unfasten them until the smooth, hairless planes of his pecs and stomach were dramatically displayed. He trailed one hand down his newly exposed muscles, glistening with body oil and seemingly glitter, until it disappeared beneath the band of his thin trousers; implicitly cupping around his cock as the other tipped his hat revealing a crooked smile, clearly enjoying the reactions he was eliciting from the patrons. At the crescendo, he rose from his seat, ripped off his trousers, and kicked back the chair. Falling gracefully to the stage, he put his weight on his hands, as he slowly, but precisely began to twerk his hips, knees moving in gliding circles. The muscles in his ass clenched around the black lace thong under the strain of each emphatic thrust towards the floor. Castiel forgot how to form words at the sight of the twitching muscles. Somewhere between the clenching and Castiel remembering to swallow his own saliva the young man on stage ended up on his back, writhing against the stage and thrusting against his own palm, face covered by his wide-brim hat. Blessedly, Castiel was in full view of the entire thing, eyes transfixed on the point of contact between skin and lace, until the music ended all too quickly. The crowd was shouting, while Castiel remained too dumbstruck and high to acknowledge the song even ended at all. Damien rose to his feet with a gleaming smile spread across his face as he took a bow and hurriedly collected his clothing scattered around the stage. He turned one last time to give a open-palmed salute and a salacious wink towards Castiel’s blank face before exiting the stage altogether.

“Are you finished making love to your seat yet? Honestly, I'll never understand your fascination with twinks.”

Forcibly blinking his eyes, Castiel chanced a look over to Balthazar, whom he'd forgotten was sitting at the table with him. The bastard had a shit-eating grin plastered on his face at Castiel’s expense and a martini in his hand. Balthazar would know, he was basically an old twink, if such a thing existed; the unicorn of the gay community. Yet Castiel still wasn't interested. He wanted to tell him as much, but his mouth was dry from hanging it open.

“Not to worry, Birthday Boy, I already signed you up for a private dance. You were so distracted you didn't even know I left!”

^^^

The rest of the dances were fine, but none came close to Damien. He'd had a certain pull about him that the other dancers lacked. Charisma, maybe. Mystery, most likely. Castiel just knew he wanted more, but the time passed like pulling taffy, each pull and thrust dragging it out exponentially longer. So when Balthazar led Castiel over to the staircase descending to the clubs basement, he went willingly, giggling the entire way because the sign over the stairs read ‘The Snake Pit’.

“They're going to find out,” he spoke, thinking he was whispering. He was referring of course to the fact he was high. Balthazar paid him no mind as he sat him in a chair. They were in a hallway lit by exposed red bulbs. Ominous. He went over to speak to the large man at the end of the hall, while Castiel attempted to make himself look invisible. Surprisingly, it didn't work.

“Is he, y’know, okay?” The bouncer made a circular gesture with his finger as he peered over Balthazar’s shoulder. “Yes, of course. It's his birthday, just came out to have a bit of fun. Aging, you know how that goes.” Castiel didn't really have a problem with aging, not like Balthazar at least, but he didn't fight the explanation because he needed to get on the other side of one of these doors. Whichever one housed the man with the body sculpted from smooth marble. An actual Adonis. He could teach a lesson on that ass alone. 

The two men spoke a few moments more, Balthazar pointing to a name on the list, the bouncer nodding his head. All systems go. Balthazar leaned over Castiel’s shoulder to inform him he was going back upstairs to try to blow the bartender and to find him after his dance. It occurred to Castiel that he was leaving, but it didn't bother him as much now, failed attempt or not. 

He sat in that chair for what seemed like ages, his own ass developing pins and needles. When he likened it to the static of a television screen he chuckled to himself and the bouncer shot him a weary squint, but he just nodded his head in the best attempt at nonchalant he could muster.

A disheveled man emerged from one of the rooms with an overly pleased expression on his face. Castiel wanted to be that man right about now. He watched him float by on cloud nine until the bouncer announced it actually was Castiel’s turn, but he was at a different door at the end of the hall. That was for the best; a sober Castiel would have questioned the sanitary conditions of this whole event. The bouncer gave him a thorough run down of the rules for getting a lapdance. Castiel didn't know there were so many and his brain struggled to memorize the list. The main emphasis on the fact he wasn't allowed to touch the dancer. He could handle that. If he remembered one rule, it should probably have been that one. Before he wrapped his head around the rest, he was being corralled into the dimly lit room.

^^^

Exposed brick. A fuzzy carpet. It sunk under the weight of his dress shoes as he crossed the floor to the faux leather sofa. It was the only place to sit so he relaxed his body onto it as he waited. It was comfortable and he wanted to sink into it like those deflated people on the Marijuana commercials. He giggled to himself at the thought. He always found those commercials ridiculous, but right about now he understood it perfectly. 

After a few minutes of waiting, he was starting to feel the edge of anxiety creeping back in. He was sitting alone in a red room, sinking into a couch countless other men have sunk into, in the basement of a seedy, gay men's club, stoned off his ass, and Balthazar wasn't with him. Balthazar was upstairs and it was going to be fine, he reminded himself. He was going to be fine. He repeated the mantra, eyes closed, scratching at the denim on his thighs to relax himself, until the door on the other end of the room opened. His eyes opened with it.

When his eyes found him, Damien smiled. “Was hopin’ you'd end up here.” His voice was like aged whiskey, but somehow he still sounded young. Barely a man himself with the confidence of ten. The rough timbre instantly soothed him.

He crossed the room effortlessly as he went for the ipod on the high shelf. He seemed taller at such close range, or the room seemed shorter. Castiel couldn't decide. It didn't matter. He was scrolling through trying to choose a song as he lifted his head and asked, “Got a preference?” A small smile playing on his lips. Castiel started to shake his head, but realized his mouth had requested something slow. “Slow,” repeated Damien on a laugh, “I think I can work with that.” He quirked his lips as he resumed scrolling. When he pressed play, the room was filled with the slow beat of Led Zeppelin’s ‘You Shook Me’. Castiel could work with this too. 

Not wasting any time, Damien swayed his hips as he untied his satin robe, letting the silken material slide off his shoulders onto the carpet. He had on the same black lace thong from earlier and nothing else. “A little birdy told me you're the Birthday Boy,” he teased, bending over to wiggle his pert ass. Castiel couldn't look away from how it seemed to swallow the lace band and he wanted nothing more then to slip his finger around it and tug it aside. It had no right to feel like a gift just for him, but it did, and he dragged his nails over his thighs again to prevent himself from reaching out. He groaned an acknowledgment to the question as Damien sunk to his knees and arched his ass in slow circles, cheeks spreading on every backwards thrust. He could hear a light chuckle emit from Damien’s throat as he rolled over onto his back, propping himself up on his elbows. He reached out a bare foot and toed it along Castiel’s inseam, inching higher and higher. He pressed it against the heat, eyes locking on Castiel’s own before engulfing the rest of him. 

Each individual part of Damien was beautiful, including his face, but as if it were too perfect or too beautiful or too much of everything, Castiel couldn't piece it together. It was like looking at the sun during an eclipse. 

Smoothly, Damien managed to pull himself to his feet in one fluid motion, crowding against Castiel’s knees with a playful smirk on his face. “You gonna open up for me?” He nudged at a knee. Castiel bit his bottom lip to hold back another groan. He fought to take his eyes off the restrained cock sheathed in dainty black lace, feeling the saliva pool under his tongue, but he finally assented and spread his legs wider. Welcoming. Damien took the invitation, sinking down once more into Castiel’s heated lap, knees pinning him in on either side. He placed one hand on the back of the sofa, one on Castiel’s knee, hovering just out of reach of his almost painful erection and began to rock his hips along with the rhythm. A tortuously slow pace following some invisible barrier against the curve of Castiel’s groin and stomach. He clenched his fists as tight as he could to ground himself in the moment causing Damien to chuckle again.

His brain was caught somewhere between over-processing and short-circuiting. Over-stimulation and not enough. He was too scared to look into his eyes so he stared at the charged air separating their cocks instead. Some lace and a bit of denim. Not so much really. Damien was hard and leaking over the top of the thong, beads of clear precum dribbling out. Castiel didn't know if it was ritual for the stripper to get an erection for their clients or if he was in any way special, but this also didn't seem to matter the longer he stared. He was tempting him. He wet his lips absently. Damien noticed and leaned into him, crossing the barrier.

“I've been wanting to do this ever since I first saw you,” whispered Damien, humid against his ear. It sounded like an admission, but Castiel couldn't figure out the riddle; there wasn't enough blood left in his brain. “How ‘bout a happy ending, Birthday Boy?” It took all his strength to nod. “God, yes,” he practically growled.

Damien swung his legs around to face his back to Castiel, still seated in his lap, mimicking the obscene movements of riding his cock. The muscles in his thighs tensed as he lifted and dropped repeatedly, somehow figuring out Castiel’s newfound obsession with that side of him. His shoulders moved like waves, light freckles and glitter dancing playfully across his sweaty skin. He noticed the distinct smell of ripe strawberries. But Castiel was at war with his senses. He wanted to touch and taste and smell. He wanted to hear what kind of sounds this divine creature could make, what sounds he could elicit from him specifically. But all he was allowed to do was look and he didn't even have complete control over himself. When Damien reached back to slip his own finger under the lace band, Castiel didn't try to hide the moan forming in his throat. His hands unclenched and tried to find their way to replace the others, but he managed to stop himself short. The moan turned into a cry of frustration. Another chuckle. “Like what you see?” Castiel didn't find answering necessary.

On one particular jolt of his hips, their cocks aligned, causing Castiel to suck in a sharp breath. When it happened again, he let it out in pleasured agony. He needed more. He must have pleaded for it because Damien circled his hips faster than before, letting out a few restrained whimpers of his own. They weren't following the music anymore and Castiel couldn't place when the song changed, when this dance changed. But there were still rules, Castiel learned. His hands found their way to Damien’s thighs, sliding up and over the hairless, slick skin there as they made their way to grope and tease along the cleft of his ass. Damien immediately managed to turn himself around. He pinned Castiel in with his forearms and leaned forward, ghosting his lips over the shell of Castiel’s ear. “No touching,” he breathed, but it sounded like a weak argument. Nonetheless, Castiel complied. He sunk his grip instead into the faux leather of the sofa back, knuckles turning white in defiance. No touching. The golden rule.

It didn't escape Castiel how unfair the dynamics of this situation were either. He wasn't allowed to touch, but Damien could touch whatever he wanted. Castiel only had so much to give while fully clothed anyway, but Damien found a weakness in his armor. Castiel’s head met the back of the sofa when nimble hands met his zipper and slowly tugged it down just enough to reach inside. Damien took him in his warm hand and languidly stroked, smearing precum around the head with his fingers while occasionally thumbing at the slit. He was rubbing his own length through the lace and what Castiel would have paid for them to meet in the middle right then, he couldn't say. 

“D-Dam-,” he choked out a moan around the syllable, but he couldn't get the name out. It didn't take long and were he sober he might have cared, but a few deft pulls, exchanged moans, carefully chosen affections, warm lips suckling his earlobe and he was pouring hot cum into the front of his boxers with a silent shout. When he opened his eyes, he was greeted by the sight of Damien chasing his own ecstasy. Shoulders slumping, eyes half-lidded, hips stuttering, and thick ropes of semen coating the front of Castiel’s jeans. “Shit,” he panted out. His cheeks were flushed from exertion or embarrassment as he realized his error. “Sorry,” he murmured almost shyly, as he scrambled for the tissues on the side table. He did his best to clean the front of Castiel’s lap, but Castiel just giggled. “Don’t be.” Castiel found nothing to apologize for. “You’re perfect.” He closed his eyes with a deep inhale and let out a soft, appreciative hum. “You smell like strawberries,” he said with a blissed out grin. “I love strawberries.” He felt like he was on cloud nine, too. He must have looked like the sloppy man in the hall before him.

When he looked up again, Damien was still seated in his lap, looking down at Castiel like he was the most bizarre yet intriguing thing he'd ever seen. His eyes danced back and forth between Castiel’s, alight with something that Castiel couldn't place, but whatever it was made the confident man in his lap falter.

“Yeah,” he breathed finally, donning a lopsided smile, “Yeah, I guess I do.”

^^^

At some point, Castiel managed to navigate his way back up to the main floor of the club. He needed to find Balthazar. He needed to go to sleep. 

The restroom was the first place he checked. It was empty, minus one man in obnoxiously plaid pants that startled the second Castiel came stumbling through the door. “You're not my friend,” he said more for himself than the other man. 

Backing his way out, he turned to check the bar, but the only one there was the bartender cleaning up empty glasses and wiping down the bartop. Clearly a failure to launch, but he approached anyway. “Have you seen my friend?” The bartender didn't hear him at first so he repeated it, louder. He looked up from where he was cleaning and gave Castiel a critical once-over, hooking his thumb in the direction of the back exit. He nodded his thanks as he moved around the bar towards the exit. 

The air had more of a cold nip this late into the night and Castiel drew his jacket tighter around himself. Sure enough, Balthazar was seated on the edge of the curb, mindlessly scrolling through his phone. Taking those few steps forward, Castiel lowered himself ungracefully onto the curb, letting out an amused huff. “So, what happened?” Balthazar gave a vague acknowledgment to the glow Castiel could feel himself radiating. It was either that or the smell of sex he was now exuding in abundance. Castiel was high as a kite and he was feeling amazing right about then, the only thing better would be wrapping himself in clean sheets. 

“His name is Benny and it just so happens, he's taken.”

“Taken? Since when has that ever stopped you?”

Balthazar shouldered Castiel at the less than false insinuation. “Yes, taken, you bastard… Her name is Andrea and yes, I know, you told me so.”

Castiel threw his head back on a laugh, eyes crinkling with a gummy grin. “I think your gaydar is finally broken.”

“Probably.” He got to his feet, extending a hand down to Castiel. Castiel clasped it, hauling himself back up. “Let's get you home, Cassie.”


	3. Chapter 3

**_Present_ **

 

Castiel turned his cellphone off to avoid the inevitable call he would receive from Balthazar for ignoring his messages. For added precaution, he tossed it across the living room floor and groaned, spooking Michelangelo who had been lazily grooming himself without a care in the world, all while it seemed Castiel’s world was crashing down around him. Alright, maybe that was actually a bit dramatic. Afterall, he didn't know Damien-- Dean-- was a student -- his student. He could barely piece his face together at the time as it was. In fact, he could barely piece together a large portion of that sequence of events. If this were an after school special, Castiel would be the lesson in why one should say ‘no’ to drugs. What was the worst that could happen? This was probably the worst case scenario he hadn't even anticipated.

Halfway through pacing the living room, another fuzzy memory emerged. A hand snaking into his pocket. Warm breath whispering into his ear. “Call me.” He directed his feet towards his bedroom and they found their way to his closet. Pulling it open, he shuffled around a few hangers until he found his leather motorcycle jacket towards the back of the closet. Sure enough, located in the pocket was a folded tissue with a neatly printed phone number written on it. The name ‘Dean’ scrawled above it. If there were any shred of hope left that his mind was playing tricks on him, this seemingly innocent tissue squandered it. Castiel held it contemplatively, idly pondering over unrealistic possibilites, before snapping himself out of it. 

He couldn't do anything with this number. Dean was his new student. Dean was almost assuredly half Castiel’s age. Dean was a stripper at a seedy gay club. Dean smelled like strawberries. Dean had freckles. Dean was more beautiful than any artwork Castiel had ever seen. His list of cons all sounded suspiciously like pros. Castiel was very screwed. 

Not wanting to let temptations lie in wait, he marched into the bathroom with renewed purpose and flushed the tissue. He couldn't be sure he wouldn't try to add it to his phone after he got drunk, which he was now going to have to do to forget all about this again. Wine was invented for times like this. He poured himself four full glasses, chugging each one in earnest, before stumbling his way into bed later that night with the hopes for a dreamless sleep.

^^^

He did not get one. Dreams of heated, freckled skin and glitter danced across the backs of his eyelids. Panted moans. His new student asking him for a different kind of extension altogether. All in all, this weekend was going the exact opposite of good, but he supposed Dean knew that would happen when the words left his mouth. The little shit.

What's more, he was being rudely awoken by Balthazar throwing himself onto Castiel’s prone form. “Wake up, Cassie,” he urged, shaking Castiel by the shoulders like he was reviving the dead. “It's a beautiful day and we're going out to brunch!” 

Castiel groaned, pulling the covers back over his head. He wasn't a morning person under the best of circumstances. This definitely wasn't any of those. “I never agreed to that,” he grumbled into the pillow. “How did you even get in here?”

“Well, you would have if you hadn't ignored my call on the way over here.” 

Balthazar seemed confident, but Castiel knew otherwise. He didn't want to leave this bed until absolutely necessary. “That seems unlikely and you didn't answer my question.”

Balthazar released an overly dramatic sigh. “Alright, if you insist. I buzzed up to Mrs. Birdbrain and she got so excited at the prospect of a visitor she buzzed me in.” 

“You know that's not her name.” Her name was Mrs. Birdell and she just happened to be a little eccentric. “That also doesn't explain why you're on top of me.”

“Oh, that’s right, I forgot you like to top.”

“Balthazar!” Castiel pulled the covers off his head, only further disheveling the mess of hair, to toss an affronted scowl over his shoulder.

He chuckled at Castiel’s obviously growing impatience. “Relax, darling, you forgot to lock your door. By the looks of it you had a party for one last night and I'm a bit hurt you didn't want me to join you.” 

They'd been down this road more than once. Late night ‘booty calls’, drunkenly commiserating over one thing or another. It never worked. Castiel made an attempt once, but inevitably it fell to shit and when he told Balthazar it wouldn’t work out, it just so happened he was taking his sabbatical abroad. They just weren't the kind of people that were supposed to be with each other; their personalities were too different. That being abundantly clear again as Balthazar attempted to yank the blankets off of Castiel’s half naked body. He got halfway till Castiel pulled it back harder. 

“If you don't get out of this bed right this instant, I'm coming in with you.” Castiel rolled his eyes, but after quick consideration he reluctantly pushed back the covers and pulled on some clothes.

^^^

“The best way to avoid a hangover is to never be sober,” lectured Balthazar, as the waiter set down their second round of mimosas. It was a beautiful, sunny day so they decided to grab a table outside. At least that way Castiel could get away with hiding his new hangover behind a pair of round, tinted glasses.

Balthazar nodded his thanks to the waiter as Castiel peered over the top of his menu. “I’m almost positive that's just called alcoholism.” He didn't argue further as he reached for his drink. He couldn't argue because unfortunately he was feeling a bit better already. Castiel continued perusing the menu despite knowing exactly what he wanted. A Denver omelet with a side of melon. He had ordered the same thing every time they went out to brunch without fail, always telling himself one of these days he would change his order. Today wasn't that day.

“So,” started Balthazar, “Tell me about it.” He had that omniscient look about him that peeved Castiel to no end.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Castiel directed his gaze downward and pretended to reread the brunch selection.

“Oh, Cassie, please. You’re a terrible liar, always have been. Surely you didn't drink yourself silly and ignore me for nothing, so out with it.”

“I ignore you all the time, you just don't realize it,” snarked Castiel, ignoring the question. He didn't want to discuss it at all. Especially not with Balthazar because despite claiming he was fine with the arrangement of ‘just friends’, he still acted jealous on occasion. Besides, discussing it was the exact opposite of forgetting it. Balthazar wasn't buying that, though. 

“You know, I have ways to torture it out of you. I'm not above using any of them.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, unfazed. “I don't think this establishment would take too kindly to two old men having a tickle fight on the patio.”

“I told you before and I’ll tell you again: we are not old. Besides, you still have a firm behind if this morning was anything to go by.” Balthazar winked as he took a sip of his mimosa.

“Waking up to an old man on top of me isn't quite as lurid as you make it sound.” Castiel smirked at the sour pout on his friend’s face. “Okay, not old. Well-preserved.” It was Balthazar’s turn to roll his eyes. 

The waiter returned to take their orders. A Denver omelet and a side of melon. Crepes topped with fresh cream and berries. Balthazar ordered a third mimosa. The usual. 

“Cassie, darling, you're hedging the question.”

He knew once Balthazar caught a scent he'd track it like a bloodhound. He knew Castiel better than most too. Trying to keep something from him was next to impossible, especially something this humiliating. He tried though, for a few minutes. Avoiding his gaze, fidgeting with his napkin, scanning for their food, all to no avail. His friend was boring into him from across the patio table, expectantly. “Fine. I have a new student,” he said, tone terse, trying to keep it to the point. 

Balthazar raised an eyebrow, obviously not believing that was the entire issue. “Go on...” he prodded. 

Castiel huffed. “I have a new _attractive_ student,” he admitted, hoping Balthazar would catch any and all implications. He just let out a tinkling laugh at Castiel’s expense. “That sounds like the opposite of a problem.” Apparently, Castiel was going to have to start at the beginning. 

Begrudgingly, he did. He recalled the night they went out for his birthday, pausing briefly as the waiter set down their food. Through bites of his omelet, he told him about the intimate details of his private lap dance with the dancer, Damien. The details he could remember at least. About the phone number he found in his pocket. About his class yesterday and signing his approval that made this all an enormous problem. And finally, about how he was enormously screwed because Dean Winchester remembers everything, and he seemed less than shy about making that known. 

He filled the silence with food as Balthazar absorbed all the information that was just dumped in his lap. Setting down his fork, Balthazar cleared his throat. “So, this Dean Winchester is the twinkie from the club who has a special interest in… sculpture? Honestly, if I were you I'd be throwing a parade, but seeing as how I'm not, you obviously can't do anything regarding...this.” He gestured flippantly at the air around a bite of his crepe.

“Thank you for your divine wisdom, Balthazar. Whatever would I do without you?” He balled up his napkin and tossed it on his plate, nudging it off to the side. “I know I can't do anything, but I already signed the course form. He's in the class. I can't just remove him. That would raise a few unnecessary red flags, wouldn't it?”

Balthazar seemed to be considering the options, of which there weren't many, as he hummed into his mimosa. “I suppose all you can really do is ignore it and hope it goes away. According to you, you're quite good at that.” Lifting his drink, he clinked their glasses together, looking all too pleased with himself per usual. “Cheers.”

Castiel just scowled and slouched further into his patio chair.

^^^

The rest of Castiel’s weekend was suspiciously unburdensome. He spent the remainder of Saturday night with the remnants of his bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and his tattered copy of ‘Slaughterhouse-Five’. Sat in his overstuffed second-hand armchair, he flipped the pages until the blissful throes of sleep overtook him. 

He awoke Sunday morning with the book splayed across his chest and his tortoise shell reading glasses falling off his nose. There was now a crick in his neck from the odd angle, but he was relieved to note there had been no unbidden night visitors walking through his dreams. None that he remembered anyway, but it would have to suffice. Not remembering was almost the same as having never happened, right? Or so Castiel kept trying to convince himself.

Sunday was spent on the floor. Castiel’s apartment was cramped, much like his office, full of books, art, and things he found to be of particular interest for one reason or another. So it was no surprise there was hardly enough work space to spread his drawing paper out on. Part of him secretly preferred to work on the floor though, a full body experience, but he dreaded the day he wound up on a Life Alert commercial. 

Forcing away any idea of stiff joints, he was drawing an example piece for his Figure Drawing course. A lesson in chiaroscuro. It would have been easier to simply print out examples, but Castiel relished the chances he got to utilize his artistic abilities. Most of the time he often wondered what his life may have been like were his talents strong enough to be lucrative, but he never dwelled. He was too old for dreams anyway. 

Wiping the charcoal off on his ripped denim, he stood with all the grace of a baby giraffe, clutching the arm of the chair for balance and forcefully ignoring the twinge in his knees from the wooden floor. He didn't know who Balthazar was trying to fool; thirty-six felt old enough. From this vantage point, it would have seemed almost as if Castiel’s subconscious took control of his hands; an all too familiar face emerging from the black. And here Castiel thought he was just making one up, knowing full well the brain wasn't capable of such a feat. He heaved a sigh as he placed the drawing in his folio. At this point, Castiel was just grateful Dean Winchester didn't have a secret penchant for figure drawing, or worse: that he wasn't a nude model.

^^^

By the time Tuesday afternoon rolled around, Castiel was a twisted knot of nerves and apprehension. He pulled out his laptop again just as he had on Friday, making sure to hook up the correct cords to the overhead projector. Castiel wasn't a master where technology was concerned, but at least he was the first to admit it. He managed to set everything up and found his premade slideshow with five minutes to spare, so he filled the time checking a few emails on his phone as the students found their seats. Idle chatter and the fluttering of notebook paper formed a symphony, but when Castiel glanced up from his phone his brain waves short-circuited.

Of course it was Dean Winchester. 

Castiel could have almost convinced himself Dean wasn't in the class, almost, had he not taken it upon himself to approach the podium. Castiel fumbled with the phone in his hands when he glanced up to see that familiar smile. “Hello, Mr. Winchester,” he said, as professionally as possible. “Can I help you with something?”

Dean considered the question as he tapped the end of his pen against his chin. “Not at the moment,” he decided with a slow spread of his lips, “Just wanted to point out I came on time.”

Castiel did not miss the play on words, he just chose to believe they were unintentional. “Yes, I can see that. Congratulations.” Clinging desperately to his resolve, Castiel had made the conscious choice not to let someone half his age hold all the power in this situation. “If you were looking for a gold star or something, I’m fresh out.” Somehow, that came out in sarcasm, but his weak defenses were palpable because Dean flashed an amused grin at Castiel’s expense, before turning his back on him altogether. Castiel did not stare at his ass, but he might have stolen a brief glance.

Having taken the seat directly in front of the podium, front and center, he may as well have been screaming, “Notice me!” Hair perfectly tousled with gel, fresh-faced enthusiasm plastered on, the deep lines of a black cotton v-neck revealing a smattering of faintly freckled skin. Castiel did notice. How could he not? Maybe it was vain to think this display was meant for him, but who else would it be for? Dean pulled his notes from his bag and arranged them on the table top, then waited, watching Castiel fidget behind the podium. There was nothing particularly deviant about his expression, but Castiel’s brain was supplying it's own imagery as Dean brought the nibbled end of his pen to his lips. Clearing his throat, Castiel addressed the class and began his lecture, doing his best to make eye contact with every line of vision that wasn’t directly in front of him.

Surprisingly, despite how much he built this moment up in his mind all weekend, nothing happened. Castiel spoke, Dean listened. He astutely took notes for the entire hour, not even sparing a passing glance at his cell phone or the clock on the the wall. He seemed genuinely engaged in Castiel’s lecture, which worked to dispel Castiel’s unsavory notion that Dean Winchester had signed up for this class solely as an act of punishment. When the lecturing came to an end, the students shuffled their belongings back into their bags and made way for the door, chatting between themselves about things they found more interesting than marble statues of naked men. 

Maybe ignoring this whole thing would be easier than Castiel imagined.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gotta love a slow burn (don't worry it's more torturous for me than it is for you), but i guess if you start a story out with porn you gotta reel it in! lol
> 
> The next chapter will be longer.

In an astoundingly shocking turn of events, Castiel would turn out to be wrong. Shocking to no one in particular besides that gullible voice inside him, desperate for his life to have been so easy. It didn't happen all at once, though. It happened slowly; maddeningly slow, as Castiel deemed Dean Winchester’s preferred mode of torture. But then again, he'd requested this exact brand of torture, hadn't he?

^^^

The rest of the week had been entirely uneventful, but every small motion afforded to him from the front row felt like an event. Castiel was on high alert; the slightest roll of his shoulders, the simple lick of a finger to turn a page, the unavoidable locking of eyes when Dean would answer a question. His responses were always insightful, even with his sometimes inelegant manner of speaking and that just made this all much worse for Castiel, didn’t it? He kept waiting for something more to happen. Anything. He wouldn’t admit that he almost wanted something to happen, needed it even, only allowing himself the mundanity to expect it. An inevitable demise courtesy of one, Dean Winchester, but it never came. The incomparable object of his subconscious desires suddenly became human and he missed when, but somewhere along the way, Castiel had been the one put on display. One hour, four days a week. One hour classes were supposed to be easier for everyone involved, but that only meant Castiel had to perform four times a week instead.

Today was another distracted Friday lecture. Castiel assigned them their first paper of the semester: five thousand words on literally any sculpture that fit within the parameters of the course material covered before the first test. The students usually found the assignments more interesting when casting with a larger net and it made Castiel’s job of reading them more interesting too. The catch was they had to take a trip next class to visit the nearby art museum and compare their selection to any work of art within its archives. Castiel looked forward to it, regardless of the grumbling it was met by.

“You can groan all you want, but you still have to do it,” spoke Castiel with a laugh as he closed out of the assignment shown on the projector, revealing his laptop background. It was his cat, Michelangelo, sprawled out on his back and poorly photoshopped into The Creation of Adam. The image elicited much snickering and a few girls fawning approval over how fat the cat looked from that angle. A small smile and slight blush crept across Castiel’s cheeks as he had forgotten he’d changed it while wine drunk. That just went to show how rare it was for him to have no opened tabs on his work computer.

“Just think,” he said, closing his laptop while the students began to close up their notebooks for the day, “I’m probably one of your cooler professors. Let that sink in this weekend, while you choose a subject for your paper.”

The majority of students clustered towards the door, but when he hazarded a glance in Dean’s direction, he was in the middle of what appeared to be a rather animated conversation with a new friend, Charlie Bradbury. One of the better students in the Graphic Design department or so he’d heard. A good student and a nice girl. The interaction resolved itself in a fit of laughter and bright smiles when Dean’s eyes darted over and caught Castiel’s. Castiel quickly busied himself in gathering his things, heat spreading to the tips of his ears at having been spotted, but he didn’t miss the spark of curiosity that danced across Dean’s features at the unwarranted attention before Dean focused his own back to Charlie. Somehow, Dean was even more radiant when he laughed.

Dean had with him his regular backpack with the addition of a smaller black duffle again. He carried it with him to both Friday lectures thus far, so it must have been for work, and Castiel tried not to imagine the sorts of things contained within it. To prevent his mind from conjuring up inappropriate illusions, he usually went with the safer alternative of deciding the bag was simply filled to the brim with glitter or dirty gym socks. That was rational, right? Completely believable. He watched as Dean and Charlie exited the auditorium together, linking arms like school children on the playground. The sight tugged at the corners of Castiel’s lips.

^^^

Castiel stayed later than usual, passing the time during his office hours grading the artwork from his Figure Drawing course. The chiaroscuro assignment. Of which, he ended up making copies of examples found in one of his drawing textbooks instead of using the drawing he had made. He couldn't exactly hang up a drawing of Dean Winchester’s face, just on the odd chance Dean had a friend in the class. Dean obviously made friends easily, so Castiel didn't doubt he would. Castiel wasn't the best artist around either, but he was proficient enough that without reference the drawing was unmistakably Dean. As were most things regarding Dean, he would later discover.

There was a slight tapping on his office door as it creaked open on its weathered hinges. Castiel couldn't lie. He was expecting it to be Dean. Somewhere indefinable, he might even go so far as to categorize the feeling as hopeful, but that wasn’t a feeling he would allow himself. It wasn’t Dean, though. It was, however, the dean, Naomi, her eyes darting disdainfully around the cluttered space, but face plastered with an insincere, tight-lipped smile. 

“Hello, Professor Novak.”

“Good evening, Naomi,” he greeted as warmly as he could muster and started to get out of his chair. She always insisted on being called by her first name. Maybe in an attempts to lure people into thinking she was a warm and inviting human being. “How can I help you?” 

Naomi was never his favorite person. She had an aura about her that dropped the temperature in whichever room she entered. Perhaps it was due to the sharp edges of her starched pantsuits, but she always exuded a harshness; automatically placing everyone around her on edge. Castiel knew she was constantly looking for cracks in his performance, but he had to suck up anyway because she played a critical role in deciding if he would be eligible for tenure when the time came.

“Oh, no, don't trouble yourself to get up,” she said, gesturing for Castiel to take his seat again. He did, but she never moved from the doorway, acting as if the office were a death trap and she might catch something from touching any available surface. “I just wanted to check in to tell you the board is impressed by how well you've handled juggling both your art history course, as well as Gabriel’s studio course. It is a shame about Professor Speight’s unexpected departure and we acknowledge shifting between the two could be somewhat challenging given how little time you had to prepare. Of course, I had my doubts placing you in this position, but we're confident now we chose the right person for the task.” 

She stood with her hands clasped together, clearly awaiting a response, but Castiel wasn't sure what to say. He wasn't expecting her to be delivering a backhanded compliment in person, much less to himself. Realizing he was just staring blankly at her, he cleared his throat and began, “Thank you, it's no trouble at all actually. I rather enjoy being able to teach both. They're not so different subjects, really, since both are focused on depictions of the human form.”

“That's true, it must feel monotonous staring at nudity that frequently.” Castiel supposed that was intended as a joke so he gave a polite huff, but Naomi wasn't usually funny, not deliberately. “You get used to it.” He stared awkwardly at her, wondering if this exchange was over. He could say with certainty now that he was hoping it was. “Yes, well, that is all for now so I won't keep you, but keep up the good work and we will continue to acknowledge your progress. It could lead to promising things in the future. Goodnight, Professor Novak.”

“Thank you, I will. You have a good night as well,” he waved, though she turned before he was even done with the sentence. Apparently giving the compliment was just as painful for her as it was for Castiel to receive it. 

He heard her give an acknowledgement outside the door, “Good evening, Professor Roche.” Castiel was alone for barely a minute before Balthazar slipped into his office, not bothering to knock. Balthazar wordlessly took the seat across from his desk with the ripped leather cushion as he usually did because he claimed it was actually comfortable. He crossed his legs and stared at Castiel over the desk. Castiel afforded him one glance before returning to his analysis of the students drawing in front of him instead. He looked like he was gearing up to watch a soap drama unfold before his very eyes.

“What?” 

“What,” mimicked Balthazar. “Christ's sake, Cas, it's like pulling teeth with you sometimes. What did the ice queen want?”

Castiel allowed himself a small twitch of his lips; Balthazar wasn't wrong in his assessment there. “Actually, she came to tell me I was exceeding her already low expectations, so I guess you could call that a win.” He checked off the grading sheet and awarded Kevin Tran an A for his appropriate use of shadows, before giving more of his attention to Balthazar.

“Really?” He almost sounded disappointed. 

“Why, you don't think I'm doing well?”

“Oh, no, no, no, of course you are! You always do. Your perfection is rather annoying. I guess I was just bored in my office and hoping for a juicy bit of gossip.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Oh, please. You could never!” 

They sat in relatively comfortable silence for a few moments, Balthazar scrolling social media on his phone, while Castiel moved on to his last students work in the pile, until Balthazar spoke again. “Oh, I know! Speaking of juicy tidbits” he said, uncrossing his legs and scooting towards the desk. He leaned in conspiratorially, as Castiel just willfully ignored him, his hackles raised involuntarily. “Anything new on the topic of student strippers?”

Castiel casted him a chastising glare, before glancing towards his office door. They were the only two in the basement at this time on a Friday, but still. “You really don't know how to stop talking, do you? Could you at the least lower your voice next time you decide to bring up fireable offenses? Better yet, why don't you ask Naomi to come back so we can all laugh about it? God knows she loves a good joke.”

Balthazar raised his hands in surrender at Castiel’s scolding tone. “Apologies, but you know, is there? Anything new, that is?”

“No,” he stated simply. “It's as if it never happened, and I'd prefer it stay that way.” The deflation in Balthazar shoulders matched perfectly the way Castiel felt upon uttering the words, but he forced the feeling down and willed himself to believe them. 

“As you wish.”

Gathering up his briefcase and trench coat off the back of his chair, Castiel stood, acknowledging Balthazar still seated in the old, ripped chair. “I’m leaving for the day. Are you coming?”

“Only if you’ll come to dinner with me.” Balthazar smirked at the inevitable eye roll his offer received. 

“Balthazar, we’ve been over this more than once.” Placing his briefcase down, he shrugged the trench coat over his shoulders as he considered the invitation.

“That didn’t sound like a ‘no’, though.”

Castiel sighed as he reached for the briefcase again. “Fine, but you’re paying and we’re going somewhere normal. I want a cheeseburger.”

“Of course, anything you want, darling! It’s a date!” Balthazar stood and walked his way over to meet Castiel by the door, teasing grin firmly in place.

“You know it's not,” he said flatly, locking the door behind them both.

“No, it’s not, but a man can still dream.”

^^^

They ate at a small restaurant on the waterfront a handful of city blocks away from campus. A real hole-in-the-wall type place called the Roadhouse that made Balthazar feel mildly displaced, but he managed to fill most of the meal speculating the personal lives of one coworker or another. Not even the food shut him up, but the cheeseburger was good enough that Castiel was content to listen to whatever gossip he wanted to spew. 

The waitress, a blonde girl named Jo who seemed a bit rough around the edges, came back to check on how they were enjoying the food. Castiel couldn't respond because his cheeks were full, but Balthazar gave a polite enough reply that he ended up not having to. The waitress seemed just as surprised as Castiel had been.

As promised, Balthazar picked up the bill. Sparing no expense when leaving a generous tip, probably due to the fact Castiel would have told him to leave more anyway, then they amicably bid each other goodnight once outside. Leaning against the brick facade of the restaurant, Castiel was relieved Balthazar hadn't attempted to drag the night out any longer than could feasibly be considered a friend date. That wasn't something he wanted to deal with. Yet now that the meal was over and the prospect of returning home to his empty apartment loomed over him, he felt himself stalling, mind invariably painting unwelcome pictures on the backs of his eyelids. So he walked.

Castiel’s feet dragged him over the sidewalk for a few blocks more even. Whether he’d navigated here consciously or not didn’t change the fact that he now found himself standing on the corner across the street from that all-too-familiar neon sign. It wasn’t as if he could go in. He wasn’t even sure why he stopped. A magnetic pull within the earth holding him in place perhaps, but he couldn’t bring himself to move, or maybe he didn’t want to. The possibility that all he had to do was take those first few steps and his feet would do the rest. He could relive that one moment again on repeat. Maybe even sober this time so he could remember the snake infinitely partaking in the fruit. But who was who? Was Dean the innocent fruit or the serpent in the grass, lying in wait for the right time to strike? There was a line at the door. Castiel wondered how they’d been lucky enough to miss that the first time. He remembered asking Balthazar, “What if someone sees us?” And he had been seen. Dean had seen him. At least, Dean had seen some undignified version of him. What did it matter what Dean saw anyway?

Finding his resolve, Castiel turned his back toward the club. He approached the water, placing his briefcase at his feet. He rested his elbows down on the salt-worn rail while he picked at the charcoal-induced calluses forming on his fingertips; he’d made more drawings in some vain attempt to fool his brain. The twinkling of the lights on the water’s surface reminded him of the night he met the dancer who called himself Damien, but they were just reflections watching him from across harbor. They weren't playing with him like they had been that night. The slow blinks of the harbor lights going with the motions. Red, yellow, green lights muddled in the black. He stared at them for an indefinite amount of time. A cool, autumn breeze came in off the water causing the tail end of his trench coat to billow and sweep around him, the salted air sticking to the exposed skin of his face and sculpting the mess of hair atop his head into something unruly. 

He should've gone home from the restaurant. His cat was probably wondering where he was by now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay a field trip. I just want to point out I'm literally making this story up as I go. It's a surprise for everybody! lol

The train lurched forward again as Castiel desperately clung tighter to the pole with one hand, the other gripping the strap of his leather messenger bag across his chest. A hoard of new passengers weaved their way through the cabin carving out spaces for themselves. 

The sun was high in the sky and there were hardly any clouds in sight besides a few wisps further along the horizon. Castiel couldn't have picked better weather for a class outing if he tried. It was a balmy seventy-two degrees and given this was his only class on Tuesday afternoons, he decided to dress more casually than he normally would. That entailed his favorite faded AC/DC t-shirt and fitted black jeans. Today he didn’t have to be the professor. Today he could just blend if he wanted to. Technically speaking, he didn’t even have to go with his students on this outing at all, but art museums were always his favorite place to be and he never wasted the opportunity. Especially not today, given the museum had several drawings by Michelangelo on loan and that was something Castiel wouldn’t miss for the world. 

It was fortuitous though, that he went with the t-shirt today, due to just how packed the train actually was. It felt like a bowl of pea soup and smelled even worse. When the next group of passengers exited the doors, another wave entered.

“Professor Novak,” squeaked Charlie from somewhere behind him. Castiel turned his head to search for her, but it wasn’t hard to spot the redhead even in the sea of people. She was squatting on the seat, attempting to make herself more clearly visible, and frantically waving her hands to get his attention. He ducked his head and uttered small apologies in anticipation of bumping into a few people on his way towards the rear window, but he managed to cross the aisle with as few mishaps as possible.

“Hello, Charlie,” he greeted, reaching for the pole again, but his eyes immediately shifted to the person seated to her left. “Mr. Winchester.” Dean had his headphones on, head relaxed against the pane of glass behind him, legs parted with one lightly-scuffed leather boot propped up on the empty seat next to him. Luckily for everyone, Castiel had left his sunglasses on still. He nodded an acknowledgment.

“We saved you a seat!” Charlie was all smiles and sunny disposition most of the time, with little exception. This wasn’t one either. She was smiling up at him, expectantly waiting for him to make a move one way or another. The stop for the museum wasn’t for at least another ten minutes.

“Oh, no, Charlie, I’m fine,” assured Castiel, attempting a polite rejection, even going so far as to subtly edge away, except at the exact same time it left his mouth he was unintentionally elbowed in between the ribs. 

“Fu-,” he bit his lip to snuff the word before it could leave his mouth.

Dean smoothly pulled the headphones down around his neck, the tinny riff of a guitar solo spreading through the space between them. “S’okay, Professor,” he said, eyes appraising, a sly smile tugging on his lips, “I don’t bite.” Maybe it was coincidence that the tip of his tongue peaked out to wet them. “Get it while it’s hot.” Lowering his leg, Dean exaggeratedly slapped the open spot beside him. 

Castiel’s choices were slim. Stand there like an idiot and most likely receive another punch to the gut or sit down next to Dean. The presumed consequences of which didn’t feel much different than the former, but with a brief exhaled, “thank you,” he took the seat. 

The small distance of space between their thighs felt electrically charged like one of those glass spheres that spark lightning the second your fingertip grazes it. At least, it did to Castiel. Dean seemed unphased, focusing instead on trading jokes with Charlie about the latest episode of Game of Thrones and listening to his music. 

Catching himself fixating on the sliver of skin peeking through the torn fabric of Dean’s jeans, Castiel averted his eyes. He settled them instead on the blurred images breezing past the window. Except the old woman with the shakily-applied lipstick seated across from him thought he was making eyes and started making them back. Color rushed to his cheeks. Awkwardly scratching the hairs at the back of his neck, Castiel decided the safest option would have been to close his eyes altogether .

“You look good,” remarked Dean, apropos of nothing. 

Castiel turned his head with a curious tilt as Dean lazily lolled his own against the glass to meet him. At such a close range, in broad daylight no less, Dean’s freckles stood out across the bridge of his nose. His green eyes highlighted an almost golden hue by the sunlight streaming through his thick lashes. Castiel may as well not have been wearing sunglasses at all because they were doing nothing to disguise him. Dean still caught a glimpse of his adam’s apple bobbing thickly in his throat. Much like that second meeting in his office, Castiel didn’t know what to say.

Charlie was listening to something on Dean’s headphones. Head bouncing along and clearly oblivious to the rest of the world. What could he even say? “Thank you” would imply it was acceptable for Dean to say it in the first place, but anything else would imply that Castiel wasn’t slowly becoming addicted to that rush of nervous energy he got whenever Dean was around at all. Regardless, it wasn’t appropriate and he needed to tell him. His lips parted, full of intention, but apparently Charlie’s song had ended abruptly and she was now handing Dean back his headphones, excitedly sharing her thoughts at a mile per minute. 

He would have to tell him later.

^^^

Castiel met with his students briefly at the admissions counter to hand them all discount stickers for their IDs. After that they seemed to scatter of their own accord, for which he was grateful because he was genuinely looking forward to the quiet serenity that often came with being surrounded by art. Naturally, Charlie and Dean stuck together; practically bound at the hip as new friends often are. He didn’t dwell. He paid for his own admission and wandered his way up the ornate stairwell that climbed both sides of the rotunda.

The first gallery room he entered was one of his favorites. This wing of the museum was dedicated to Ancient Mediterranean antiquities and this room in particular housed seemingly mundane, ordinary items: vases, ceramics, coins, small remnants of a long forgotten life. Which was the precise reason for it earning a place in his heart. To be able to see the everyday life and creativity of an ancient people expressed solely through everyday objects was something Castiel found endlessly wondrous. More often than not humanity inspired him. Even more so when presented with how far they’d come, compared to how far they could go.

A few of his students were huddled together, giggling over the contents of a glass display case in the center of the floor. Of which housed an enormous, ornate Aegean krater depicting the winged Greek god, Himeros, overlooking the particulars of an all-male threeway. Castiel had seen it more than a handful of times in his visits to the museum so he wasn’t surprised in the least that his students gravitated towards it. Absurdity aside, it was a beautiful piece of functional artwork and he also wouldn’t be surprised if at least one of his students chose it for a comparison piece in their papers. There was always one student that tried to choose something lewd in order to get a rise out of the professor anyway. He gave the krater a brief glance, shaking his head in his own reluctant amusement at his students overly-amused reactions, before moving onto the next gallery.

^^^

He wasn’t in a hurry. The museum stayed open a bit later than usual on Tuesdays and he wanted to make the most of the day to help clear his head. The train ride there didn’t exactly help, but taking the leisurely route to the exhibition gallery certainly did. Winding his way through a maze of Renaissance and Baroque, Folk and Americana. Taking a brief sequester through the hall of Sargent portraits, until he reached his awaited destination.

The exhibition room was temperature controlled. Separated by a set of frosted doors, the words ‘Sacred and Profane’ etched into the cloudy surface. The collection boasted a few works that had never been displayed before. Castiel entered the room, glass doors closing with a air-softened thud. There was hardly anyone in the gallery. An elderly couple murmuring to each other over a supposed sketch of Cleopatra. A woman who was making her way towards the exit past Castiel. This was just the way he preferred it. He quietly worked his way around the room letting the sketched lines communicate to him. A signed note from Michelangelo himself. These were only sketches. No where close to the detail or scale of his sculpture or frescos, but containing within them the same trapped energy. He stopped to ponder over the image simply referred to as “Madonna and Child”. A sculptural rendering of the infant Jesus in chalk juxtaposed with the rough sketch of the Virgin Mary feeding her child. For whatever reason, it stood out next to the others. He hoped it would stay quiet here for at least a little while.

Finding a padded, leather bench off to the side of the gallery, Castiel settled himself in and removed his messenger bag over his shoulder. Scrounging around inside, he managed to find a somewhat sharpened 2B pencil and a half-used sketchbook. He leafed through until he came to a clean page and then he just started sketching. Nothing in particular, but if Michelangelo could get an entire exhibit dedicated to his sketches, than Castiel could at least try, right? He pulled out his phone and searched for an image of David for inspiration simply because it was one of his favorite works. The picture of youthful beauty. He sketched hands, hair, random musculature. Generic croppings of anatomy floating in a sea of white. Nothing remarkable. Not to himself at least.

The dip in the cushion beside him distracted from much thought on the matter. He hadn’t even heard the quiet thump of the glass door. An entire gallery room and of course he had company. He could tell it was Dean by smell alone: he smelled like bar soap and leather with a subtle tinge of generic, drugstore body spray. Also nothing remarkable, except for the fact it was Dean. Part of Castiel longed for the strawberries in their absence. It was the most inconsequential detail of that night, but the one that sparked his memory the most. Though he realized in retrospect, it was probably flavored lube. 

“You’re good at that,” said Dean slumping against the wall beside him, his eyes distractedly scanning over the sketchbook page in Castiel’s lap. “Didn’t know you could draw.”

“Hello again, Mr. Winchester,” greeted Castiel, with a hairsbreadth of exasperation coloring his tone. It was a falsity to disguise the jolt in his blood pressure. “And thank you, but it’s really not much.”

“Aw c’mon, it’s better than I could do at least.” Dean untied the flannel around his waist and shrugged it over his shoulders, but not before Castiel noted the goosebumps raising on his forearms. 

“You know, that doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m talented. It could very well mean you’re just that bad.”

Dean heaved a good-natured laugh. “You’re not wrong there,” he admitted. After a beat, “Think you could draw me?”

“I’m not sure that would be a very good idea.” 

“And why’s that?”

The irony was that Dean’s face had managed to coalesce itself into almost every drawing Castiel had attempted in the last few weeks. Glancing around the room, Castiel noted that Charlie wasn’t with him. No one was. It was just the two of them sitting on a museum bench together. Dean was giving him the same brazen smirk he’d given him earlier on the train, eyes decidedly no longer analyzing the sketchbook page, but the length of Castiel’s side instead. Unfortunately, Castiel didn’t have his sunglasses to help him out right now. “Where’s Charlie,” he stuttered, “Did you lose her?”

“What?” Dean seemed caught off guard by the blatant redirection. “No, she, uh, she’s in the bathroom. Said she would meet me in here after.”

“I see,” hummed Castiel. “She’s a nice girl.” He wasn’t sure where he was aiming with the remark, he was just pulling out anything to take the target off himself.

“Yeah,” agreed Dean. “She’s the best.” 

Dean fingered with the pendant around his neck for a moment. He stood without warning and crossed the room to look at the drawing Castiel had lingered on before. The Madonna and Child. It captured his interest for a few long beats before he elegantly proclaimed, “Holy shit, these are awesome!” The corner of Castiel’s mouth lifted while Dean made his way to the next drawing and his hands began to act of their own accord again. Dean didn’t say much more about the artwork as he circled the room because he seemed to be fully immersed in studying them instead, getting up close and personal without crossing the invisible line. There seemed to be a far deeper pool of intellect behind that cocky facade and Castiel was dangerously close to walking across the room and drowning himself in it. Dean casually tossed a glance over his shoulder towards Castiel to ask, “You like Michelangelo?” 

“I do,” replied Castiel, stealing glances at Dean’s profile as he absently sketched the side of his face. It was almost funny to be seated in a room surrounded by art from one of the masters and here Castiel was fighting not to stare at the young man on the other side of the room. “He’s one of my favorites, actually. So much so, that I named my cat Michelangelo.”

Dean drew his attention away to look more fully at Castiel seated on the bench. “What like the Ninja Turtle?” Castiel tilted his head and searched the room in confusion. “Relax, I’m joking. Would explain the super cool screensaver you got goin’ there though,” laughed Dean. “Too bad I’m allergic.” Dean made his way back to the spot beside Castiel as he hurriedly flipped to a blank page. “You ever seen Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?”

“No, I can’t say that I have. My family didn’t own a television when I was a child. Something about brainwashing, I can’t seem to remember the real reason.”

“Man, that sucks. My little brother and me used to watch it together. Every weekend we’d end up huddled around our little antenna TV sharing a bowl of soggy Lucky Charms and waiting for the Saturday morning cartoons.” A warm smile escaped his lips followed by a flash of something indeterminable. “It’s a classic. You should check it out.”

Castiel didn’t miss the subtle shift. “I’ll consider the recommendation.”

They sat like that in silence for a few minutes. Castiel half-heartedly pretending to sketch a hand and Dean plucking at a loose string on his frayed jeans. The simple action was almost shy, which was entirely dissimilar to what Castiel had come to understand as Dean in these few short weeks. The awkwardness was smothering without the safety of a buffer. Something was bound to break it.

“So...” Dean dragged out, finally. “I’ve kinda been tossing it back and forth in my head tryna figure out if you remember me or not... Sometimes I think you do and sometimes I’m not so sure.” 

It was something, but it wasn’t the right something. Definitely not the route Castiel wanted to take any further conversation. But Castiel remembered enough. He’d woken up the next morning spread eagle on his living room floor. Face flush against the wood grain, the starched sensation of dried, flaking semen coating both sides of his jeans. If 2 plus 2 still equalled 4, he could figure out the math. He hadn’t even been surprised that Balthazar left him on the floor instead of the couch. It wasn’t hard to guess what happened. And even in the afterglow, smelling like someone else’s cum and waking up still intoxicated, Castiel had felt better that morning than he had in a long time. An otherworldly orgasm achieved by some anonymous, divine creature he would have probably never seen again if it weren’t for Fate tampering with the universe. But here Dean was, sat beside him on a museum bench, ever in his orbit these last few weeks, and very much of this world. Every instinct in him wanted to get this part over with. A full admission of guilt. A spiritual cleansing. He could leave this room rejuvenated once and for all. They both could. But life couldn’t be that simple and Castiel’s mouth was working faster than his brain. 

“...I mean I get why you didn’t call…” Dean continued, despite Castiel not waiting to hear it.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not sure what you’re talking about. You must have me mistaken for someone else.” Fight or flight, so they say.

Dean faltered at the deliberate obtuseness. He looked almost affronted. Knitting his brows together, he scoured the room, almost as if he were looking for whoever Castiel could possibly be referring to while Castiel tried to will them into existence. Dean narrowed his stare briefly at Castiel’s perfectly stoic profile before releasing a singular, bitter laugh. “Right, ok... my bad. Musta been somebody else.”

Charlie stumbled through the glass doors just then, fumbling around with a museum map as she pushed her squared, blue frames up her nose. “There you are! I’ve been wandering around this place for the last ten minutes! I told you to wait outside the bathroom!” She shoved the map back into her messenger bag before acknowledging that Castiel was seated next to Dean too. “Oh hi, Professor Novak, didn’t see you there.”

If Charlie was aware the amount of awkward tension she just single-handedly sliced through, she didn’t show it. She just offered a smile and a small wave. A flush of pink spread to the tips of Dean’s ears at being called out as he stood from the bench, but Castiel decided it was best for himself to stand as well. “It’s quite alright, Charlie,” he said, gathering his few things into his bag. Turning back to face her, he asked, “Are you enjoying the museum?”

“Oh, yeah, for sure! I’ve only been here once before when I was a kid. I’m thinking about bringing my girlfriend, Dorothy, back here soon too. She’s never been.”

Castiel gave her a small, genuine smile. “I think that sounds like an excellent idea. I don’t know Dorothy, but it’s a wrong that should be righted as quickly as possible,” he teased, gesturing to the drawings surrounding them, “Especially while the Michelangelo exhibit is still in town.”

“Definitely! Dean and I were just about to check it out together before he ditched me,” she ribbed, sticking her tongue out at Dean.

“Well, it’s not like I can’t look at it again, Charles. It’s been around for hundreds of years, I think it’s still gonna be around for the next twenty minutes.”

“You make a good point,” she conceded.

Throwing his messenger strap across his chest again, Castiel shot a brief glance at Dean’s still lightly-flushed face before focusing his intentions on the exit. “I believe I should be heading home now, but I encourage you both to stay a while and enjoy the exhibit. If you have any questions, feel free to send them to my email or ask during the lecture; we’ll be discussing Michelangelo soon. Have a good evening, both of you.” 

Charlie gave a goodbye wave and started tugging on Dean’s arm towards the closest drawing. For a moment, it seemed Dean was set to watch Castiel walk the rest of the distance towards the door, but his attention was snapped back to Charlie once again, talking ever enthusiastically about the work hanging in front of them. 

He hurried out, even though he had nowhere to hurry off to. Once the door closed behind Castiel, he let out a long, exhausted breath. One he’d felt like he’d been holding since he got on the train earlier in the day or maybe even for the last few weeks. Maybe feigning ignorance wasn’t the best tactic in this situation either. Castiel realized that. And the second it left his mouth he instantly regretted doing so, but it was too late to switch tactics now, wasn’t it? He could only hope that Dean would understand and let the matter drop completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Sacred and Profane' was an actual exhibit of Michelangelo drawings on loan from Casa Buonarroti in Italy. 
> 
> And since I'm lazy here is the wikipedia defintion for the the sacred/profane dichotomy:  
> "The sacred–profane dichotomy is an idea posited by French sociologist Émile Durkheim, who considered it to be the central characteristic of religion: "religion is a unified system of beliefs and practices relative to sacred things, that is to say, things set apart and forbidden."[1] In Durkheim's theory, the sacred represented the interests of the group, especially unity, which were embodied in sacred group symbols, or totems. The profane, on the other hand, involved mundane individual concerns. Durkheim explicitly stated that the sacred–profane dichotomy was not equivalent to good/evil. The sacred could be good or evil, and the profane could be either as well."


	6. Chapter 6

“Are you absolutely certain you don't just need to get laid?” 

Castiel deflated as soon as he sat down on the couch. He didn’t really know who else to talk to about this, he just knew he had to talk to someone, and Balthazar already knew the situation anyway. He didn’t have many options. Castiel mused over the question for a few moments too long. “It’s a distinct possibility.”

The truth was Castiel did need to get laid. He probably had sex dreams every other night and woke up with an erection more often than not, but he didn’t just need to get laid by anyone. That’s not what his subconscious was trying to tell him. Either that, or Castiel was ignoring any other well-intentioned meaning for the one he liked the best. Regardless, he knew Balthazar wasn’t what he needed. Castiel sighed into the phone receiver. “Why, are you offering?”

“Why, do you want that?”

“You know my answer is still no.” 

Balthazar laughed despite himself. “Alright, well, I’m leaving campus now.” There was a pause on the line as Balthazar murmured something over the line that sounded suspiciously like Castiel’s address. “I’ve just gotten a cab and I’m coming over,” he said, coming back into the phone conversation, “I’ll be there in a few minutes, whether you like it or not.” 

True to his word, Balthazar arrived outside Castiel’s apartment door in just under ten minutes. Castiel groaned as he got to his feet to let him inside, but once Balthazar was assuredly heading up the stairs, he made his way back over to the couch, pathetically slumping into the cushions. Balthazar came through the door carrying a bottle of high-end reserve wine. How he had time to stop for that, Castiel will never know.

“I’m here to fix all your problems,” announced Balthazar, closing the door behind him. He headed into the kitchen without waiting for permission, set down the bottle of wine, and started rifling through the cabinetry for a pair of wine glasses. “Well, maybe not all, but the one’s you’ll let me fix at least.” Picking up the bottle again, he carried the wine and the glasses over to the couch where Castiel had his forearm dramatically draped over his eyes, blocking out the world. Balthazar set them down on the coffee table and uncorked the wine with a pop before pouring out two very full glasses. “Alright, tell me about it.”

Castiel groaned again, but resolutely sat up to reach for his wine glass. He took a few moments to savor the full-bodied taste of the wine before choosing where to begin. Straight to the point probably worked best in this case. “He confronted me during the museum trip and, for whatever reason, I decided to feign ignorance.” Confrontation was never at the top of Castiel’s wheelhouse. He could admit that to himself, at least. If only he had cut straight to the point with Dean, then he would never have had to worry about this. 

Balthazar almost spit his wine back into his glass at the sheer stupidity. “Why in Heaven’s name did you do that?”

Castiel shrugged with a grimace. “I’m not sure. It seemed like a good idea at the time, I suppose.” 

“You realize when I told you to ignore this and hope it went away, I was referring of course to the situation not to the actual human being, right?” 

“Yes, well, I panicked. As it turns out, I guess I’m not very good at following orders.” Michelangelo jumped up on Castiel’s lap and butted his chest for attention, so he absently scratched the scruff behind his ears, mulling this whole thing over. “I’ve made everything worse, haven’t I?”

“Probably.” Balthazar finished his glass quickly and reached for the bottle again. Castiel wasn’t even half way finished with his own. “Honestly, you should just confront him head on. Rip the bandaid off, so to speak. Tell him where you’re coming from and that whatever he’s fishing for isn’t going to happen.”

Castiel hummed his agreement into his wine glass. “You’re probably right.” And while he may have been right, Castiel couldn’t seem to convince himself that whatever Dean wanted, whatever that happened to be, wasn’t going to happen. Whenever he looked at Dean, his smile, the confident way he so often carried himself, Castiel found that he wanted to give Dean whatever he wanted. He didn’t want to deny Dean anything. Nor deny himself. That thought alone disturbed him.

“I know I am,” chuckled Balthazar in return.

The two of them spent the rest of the evening splitting an order of chicken lo mein and watching an old, black-and-white movie on the couch. The 1944 film ‘Gaslight’, starring Ingrid Bergman as the unsuspecting housewife to her husband’s deceitful mind games. Michelangelo placed himself directly in between the two them, much to Castiel’s relief. 

When the movie ended, Castiel announced that it was time for him to go to bed, despite protest from Balthazar about the night not being over yet.

“No, but it is for me,” Castiel decided. He carried both their dishes into the kitchen sink before inching a reluctant Balthazar towards the door. He thanked him for the quiet evening in, it was just what he needed. He thanked him for the wine and for the talk. And then he gave him a quick pat on the back, ushering him through the door.

Castiel went about his usual nightly routine. A quick shower, a quick orgasm, brushing, flossing, and crawling into a fresh set of sheets. All by 10pm, no less. Now that he was in bed, though, his mind wouldn’t rest. He attempted to skim through another well-loved copy of a Vonnegut classic, but he couldn’t focus on that either. He undoubtedly made a mistake brushing Dean aside. It was downright rude. He could only imagine how it must have felt being on the receiving end of that situation. Then again, he was. It was just a different type of humiliation altogether. Where Dean was humiliated by Castiel pretending the whole thing never happened, Castiel was humiliated it happened at all. He would have loved to travel back in time to earlier that day and take it back, but even still, he didn’t know what he would say differently. Castiel wasn’t even sure what to say now, let alone when he had to see Dean again. Which was just his luck because that was practically every day. Frustratedly, Castiel tossed his book to the empty side of the bed. He clearly wasn’t going to get much reading done either. Reaching for the bedside light, he flicked the switch and fluffed his pillow. He laid in bed naked and resolutely stared at the grooves in the ceiling until his brain ceased function.

^^^

The remainder of the week, the method of torture had been fruit. Namely: apples. Dean carried one in with him from the cafeteria each class, tossing it back and forth between his hands like a baseball. The sweet aroma wafted towards him from the front row every day, practically smothering Castiel in a way that signified Dean was there and he was dangling himself at the end of the line, waiting for Castel to take the bait. If Castiel were a betting man, he might have said Dean wanted the attention, sticky juices constantly coating his lips and fingers, running down his chin like an invitation to clean him up, but chances were more likely Castiel was just going insane. Castiel felt like a pervert, but he couldn't stop ogling him anyway.

At the end of one of their lectures, Dean even went so far as to drop his textbook on the floor. Whether it was done with intent or not, remained a mystery, but upon bending over to retrieve it the sheer band of a lacy, black thong creeped well beyond the waist of his jeans. Fingernails digging into the wood grain of the podium, it took every fiber in Castiel’s being to pretend that never happened.

And the pen. Always the pen. It spent as much time writing as it did rested between Dean’s lips. Castiel couldn’t tell whether or not Dean had an oral fixation or if Castiel himself were just fixated on Dean’s mouth.

What was more, Dean wasn't technically doing anything. Dean didn’t say anything during the classes and Castiel couldn’t tell if that was cause for relief or concern. He did his best to keep his head down in his notebook and never volunteered his opinion. Though occasionally, he slipped up. Castiel would catch him offering a heated stare in his direction. The source of which was indecipherable as well. Was he angry? Aroused? Castiel couldn’t tell. It was probably all in Castiel’s mind. Making a proverbial mountain out of the meager crumbs Dean decided to toss his way, but then again, maybe that was the entire game. Or maybe there was no game at all and Castiel would have to commit himself. He couldn’t tell which seemed more likely and that idea, coupled with the lack of answers, shook him. Dean was holding all the cards. And more than that, Castiel practically did all this to himself by shooting himself in the foot.

The whole week, Castiel was waiting for the perfect opportunity to confront Dean. To do exactly what Balthazar told him to do. Because God knows, Castiel had no idea. If it were left up to him, well, things like the museum would happen all the more frequently. 

His opportunity came at the end of Friday’s lecture. He issued the class a small quiz towards the end of the class period and the students were allowed to leave once they finished. Unsurprisingly to Castiel, Dean finished within a few minutes. Dean was a bright student. This was his moment, though, and Castiel wasn’t going to let it slip away just due to his own stupidity. But when Dean approached the front table at which Castiel had been seated, Castiel froze. They locked eyes for a few moments longer than necessary, but as was always the case, Castiel didn’t actually know what to say. In that moment, a hint of a smirk lifted the corner of Dean’s mouth, just before he took a bite of his apple. He turned on his boot heel and left the lecture hall looking pretty pleased with himself.

Of course. When the last student finished their quiz, he collected it and added the folder to his briefcase. 

Castiel took his time packing away his things, absently pondering over whether he could get away with not leaving his apartment, or better yet, his bed, for the whole weekend as everyone cleared out. Gathering his trench coat and laptop carrier, he headed out the classroom door and took the stairs down to the basement. It was always warmer down there than the rest of the building due to the ceramic kilns, so as if on autopilot he instinctively loosened his tie before searching his pockets for his office key. As he brought the key up to the knob, he realized his door wasn't locked after all. In fact, it was precariously cracked open a fraction of an inch. He pushed it open. 

The door hinges creaked like he was a living out a scene in some grossly predictable horror movie. Were he expecting the monster to leap out from the other side, he would have been sorely disappointed. Nothing was different, not that he could tell. His organized chaos still strewn haphazardly across every available surface. A place for everything and everything in its place. Everything except a torn scrap of notebook paper placed deliberately in the center of his desk, weighted down by a shiny, red apple with a bite missing. How... on the nose.

Carelessly dropping his things onto the nearest stack of books, he crossed the room like a spooked animal. It wasn't as if he had any doubts as to who it was from, rather the tangible confirmation that at the very least he wasn't insane. Removing the apple, he unfolded the small scrap of paper and skimmed over the black ink scratched into its surface. It was only five words. Five words, but Castel could hear the drawl of the person that wrote them rattling around his head clear as day.

_Do you remember me now?_

Castiel scoffed. It was ironic really, because Castiel hadn’t remembered him, not really, but he wasn’t sure after the last few weeks how he ever managed to forget. Drugs were funny like that. Crinkling up the scrap of paper in his fist, he turned to toss it in the garbage bin by the door. Upon doing so he was met with none other than Dean himself, coolly leaning himself against the door frame with that ever-present, self-assured grin spread across his face. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it in its absence.

“Hey, Professor Novak.” 

Dean had his backpack strapped over one shoulder and that mysterious, black bag hooked over the other. How someone could look simultaneously like a model and a pack mule, Castiel would never know. A shimmering strip of gold fabric was hanging out of the top of the black bag, threatening to fall out, but Castiel really didn’t want to see what it was. He didn’t need to picture Dean in any other scenarios than the one his subconscious kept thrusting forth every time he closed his eyes at night. Luckily, his executive functions were in order today, his brain proffering up the first question that needed to be posed. “How did you get in here?”

“What, no ‘Hello, Mr. Winchester’?” Dean laughed at the concerned expression on Castiel’s face. “Relax. Door was open. You should really get better about lockin’ your door if you’re so concerned about visitors.”

He didn’t remember leaving the door unlocked, but knowing himself he probably had. “Why were you in my office in the first place?” Maybe it was just fortuitous. The universe offering up an apology to him. This was what he had intended to do all week anyway, wasn’t it?

Dean scrunched up his face and scratched the hairs on the back of his neck like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I was trying to be, uh, what’s the word…” he trailed off, snapping his fingers to trigger the word to the tip of his tongue. “Poetic? I don’t know. Did it work?”

Castiel rolled his eyes. He wasn’t here for playful banter, and he doubted that was why Dean was here either. He also wasn’t about to have this conversation with his office door open, despite the fact talking with a student behind closed doors was usually frowned upon. He slumped down into his desk chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Please, could you get the door?” Once the latch clicked, Castiel gestured to the leather chair on the other side of his desk, willing Dean to take a seat. Of course he listened, dropping his bags by the desk and taking the seat across from Castiel all too willingly. Dean cleared his throat to break up the quiet tension. “So, do you?”

This was like deja vu all over again. “I remember enough.” What Castiel couldn’t figure out was why Dean was going through all this trouble to keep reminding him. There had to be something, there always was. “Look, I… apologize for my behavior at the museum. I shouldn’t have acted that way towards you. You’ve done nothing wrong. And if I took advantage of you in my inebriated condition, I apologize for that as well, but what is it that you want from me?”

Honestly, Dean looked confused, if not offended, by the mere suggestion that his intentions were anything less than sincere. He narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean, what do I want? Also in case you missed it, taking advantage of me is kinda part of the job.” 

Castiel released an exhausted breath. “Please don’t play coy with me, Mr. Winchester. You clearly are hoping to gain something from all of this, so what is it? It’s not like I have any money to give you.” The thought had crossed his mind. Of course it had. Dean was a stripper; his mind helpfully supplied him with that fact every time Castiel looked at him. It wasn’t like people just had a passion for removing their clothing in public or getting people off in a dimly lit basement. Money would clearly be the motivating factor for any college student.

Dean spit out a bitter laugh. “Money? You think I want your money? Jesus. Well, ain’t that sweet,” he muttered, scathingly. He plucked at the loose string on his denim jeans as he bounced his knee, clearly trying to contain himself. “You know, you’re real different when you’re sober. Anyone ever tell you you’re kind of a dick?”

Castiel wasn’t expecting the blatant affront or the conviction in which it was delivered, but given the nature of their meeting, he supposed insulting a professor wasn’t really crossing a line. They had crossed most of those lines weeks ago. What was one more? That didn’t mean it didn’t affect Castiel. “You’re different too,” he accused in a knee-jerk reaction, holding his gaze over the desk.

Dean cocked his head in false earnest. “Oh, yeah? How’s that? Clearly you would know. So, please. Enlighten me.”

Castiel realized now, he didn’t have much to go on. He hardly knew Dean outside of all this. “Well, you’re wearing clothing for starters,” Castiel’s brain helpfully supplied.

Dean’s entire expression soured in an instant. “Wow. What is that, like a joke or something? Funny. If I remember correctly, which I do, my lack of clothes hadn’t seemed to be much of an issue before.” 

“This is getting no where,” Castiel heaved a worn out sigh, “I just think it would be best for everyone involved if we acted like this whole… unfortunate incident... never happened. I am your professor, you are my student. That is all. I’m practically twice your age. Nothing good would come from anyone finding out about this. Especially not for myself. Do you understand?” 

“Right, ‘cause it’s just about you. I get it.” 

Rising from his seat, he started again, “You know, if this whole professing thing doesn’t work out, you should go into sales...” Dean slowly rounded the corner of the desk, imposing himself into Castiel’s space not for the first time. With one hand pressed flat on the desk and the other on the back of Castiel’s chair, Dean leaned in, breath hot and voice like velvet against his ear, “...’cause those sure as hell don’t sound like bad selling points to me.” His soft lips grazed the shell of Castiel’s ear and, despite all efforts to the contrary, a small gasp managed to escape between his own, causing Dean to let out that familiar, mocking chuckle at Castiel’s expense. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” 

Withdrawing himself as quickly as he entered, Dean grabbed the apple back off the desk, placing it in his mouth like a pig on a spit as he gathered his belongings and slung them back over his shoulder. At least before, Castiel could detect the anger visibly displaying itself on Dean’s face. Now, his face read as alarmingly neutral. Castiel couldn’t decide which option was more preferable in this moment. Glancing at the wall clock, Dean said, “Would ya look at the time! Man, I gotta get to work, but this was nice. And for the record, I never took your friggin’ money. See ya next Tuesday, Castiel,” before disappearing out the door.

When had Dean bothered to look up his name?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who else thinks it's time we get a little bit of Dean's perspective?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, dean. 
> 
> In case anyone was curious, I update the tags and characters as they come up in the story. Since I am writing this by the chapter, I don't know far ahead of time what things will come up, but I will always tag them. I have tagged all appropriate tags for the latest chapter. Non-con touching/threats of rape.

Dean rushed his way past the forming line outside the club. He was running late from his midshift washing dishes at the Roadhouse and to top it all off he was in a sour mood due entirely to the fact he’d been accused of selling himself like some cheap whore on the side of the road only a few hours before. It had started to drizzle a bit on his walk over here too, which was just his shit luck. Shaking out the droplets of rain water collecting in his hair, Dean attempted to whiz past the bar, only to be summoned by his friend Benny behind the bartop.

“Hey, hey, whoa there,” he called out, placing the glasses he was drying down on the bartop. When Dean gave him close to full attention, he continued, balling up the damp dish rag and drying his hands on the back of his black jeans, “You look like shit, brother. What’s eatin’ you?” 

He was being naive and stupid. Dean realized that, but for whatever reason he still felt drawn to his professor. Well, he had -- ‘had’ being the operative word, because his professor seemed to be under the impression that Dean was a blackmailing, two-faced hooker, but whatever. C’est la vie. Apparently, Dean’s resulting scowl was more obvious than he’d thought given the concern in Benny’s eyes, but he didn’t have time for this and it wasn’t exactly something he wanted to discuss in the first place. 

Dean sighed in annoyance. “Nothin’, man. Can’t talk now, runnin’ late.” He jerked his head in the direction of the basement and made to leave the bar.

“I know,” said Benny, in his hushed drawl, “Crowley’s been lookin’ all over for you, wonderin’ where you been.”

“Why? What’s he want?” Benny just shrugged as if to say ‘fuck if he knew’. Crowley was an elusive bastard whenever he wanted something. Rolling his eyes, Dean adjusted the straps weighing on his shoulder. “Well, I’m here now so if you see him again tell him to eat it.” 

Just as Dean turned to head to the basement, his boss, Crowley, seemingly appeared out of thin air blocking the stairwell. “I thought I heard your voice. And what, pray tell, might I be eating?”

Dean wasn’t intimidated by his boss nor was he scared of him, though Crowley attempted to do everything in his power to make it as such. And maybe Dean should have been at least a little intimidated, after all, he did hold some semblance of power over Dean’s life, but he just didn’t have it in him -- not with that dumb accent. Maybe if he grew a couple inches too. Probably in more than one way, honestly.

“Figure of speech,” said Dean, donning his best shit-eating grin.

“Ah yes, there’s that good, old-fashioned homespun wit I’m paying you for.”

“Seein’ as how you’re payin’ me, you might actually want to let me start getting ready. Clock’s tickin’, people are waiting,” retorted Dean, tapping the invisible watch on his wrist and gesturing to the people being let in by the entrance.

“Right. Now that you’ve decided to grace us with your presence, I just wanted to inform you that you’ll be switching slots with Victor this evening. He’ll be doing the solo dance and you’ll be dancing in the group numbers.”

“What! Why? Everyone forgets the first by the end of the night. You know doin’ the solos gets me more dances.”

“Does it? Perhaps you should consider showing up on time then, if money is such a motivating factor for you. Go on then,” he prodded, “the clock is ticking and I have a business to run. After all, we have a deal, do we not? Oh, and don’t forget to wear the fig leaf. The customers love those.” Crowley turned, effectively ending the conversation, leaving Dean a seething ball of frustration. Benny tossed him another concerned expression before Dean brushed it off and made his way down the stairs to the basement. 

The changing room was overrun with the other dancers crowding around the mirror, applying the last touches to their looks. Dean stripped off his street clothes fast, and went for the bottles of body oil and glitter. Hastily applying the scented oil, he rubbed the body glitter over his shoulders, chest and thighs, before using the remnants coating his palms over the peaks of his face. Dean hated the smell of the oil. It was the most artificially-scented attempt at a strawberry he’d ever smelled, but the customers loved it. Castiel seemed to anyway. People love a theme, good or not. 

The pulsing sound of the music over the sound system and the thrum of the entering crowd above alerted Dean that he needed to pick up the pace. He slid on the metallic gold, latex booty shorts and appraised himself in the mirror for a second, turning to get a glimpse from all sides. He missed a spot shaving on the back of his thigh, but he looked good, for all intents and purposes. Good enough to get one private dance on the books at least. He could hear the emcee asking questions to the crowd over the loudspeaker trying to get them excited or whatever his job was. They had booze and the prospect of practically naked men parading themselves around for their entertainment, how much more excited did they need to be?

Reluctantly, Dean reached into his pile of undergarments and picked through until he found that godforsaken fig leaf. It was tacky, and it was intended to be worn by itself, however, a singular strip of floss wedging itself up between his ass cheeks didn’t exactly enthrall him, so Dean stepped into it and pulled it on over his booty shorts. Compromise. He pulled on the rest of the outfit, applied a faint smudge of eyeliner and gloss, then joined the others in the hall.

Luckily, Dean had seen this dance routine more than once so the impromptu change to the lineup wasn’t a big deal, it was more the money. And it wasn’t like the customers cared about the show; they were mostly here for the private sessions afterwards anyway. That didn’t mean Dean didn’t hate this dance. They made their way up the secret staircase leading behind the stage and waited for the music. As the opening synth beat to ‘Like a Virgin’ began to play, Dean and the other dancer took to the stage, illuminated by purple fog and glittering lights, while the emcee announced their stage names. Regardless of how he felt about himself, Castiel, this day, or this shitty dance routine, he really did need the money. And when he made money here, the money was good. So fuck Crowley, fuck Victor, and fuck Castiel Novak too. Dean plastered on his most sincere fake smile when ‘Damien’ was announced and the crowd by the stage went nuts. Nothing like the illusion of a twink pretending to be a naughty virgin in need of a spanking to get these desperate, horny losers blood pumping south and whipping their wallets out.

^^^

The night dragged, Dean having to be in three different routines, but at least the stage dances were over. Dean had even ventured out into the crowd a couple times to inspire more customers to shell out for a one on one session. He purposefully ignored the especially drunken table of men near the bar eyeing him on his way back down to the basement. Probably a bachelor party. He needed to freshen up a little and assess how much work he had left to do tonight. More importantly, how much money he was going to get for it.

“That a good one?” 

The bouncer, Ash, peered over the top of the latest issue of Busty Asian Beauties; obviously reading it for the articles. “Kimmi wants to be an astrophysicist.”

Dean shook his head and laughed. “What’s the damage, man?”

Reaching for his clipboard, Ash scanned over the sheet for the name ‘Damien’, squinting to see through the red light. “You got two. Congrats, amigo.”

It wasn't the worst outcome, but he could do better. He had more than once, but sometimes you’ve got to cut your losses. “Awesome,” replied Dean, “I’m gonna clean up. Send ‘em on back when they get here.”

“That's the plan, man.”

Dean chuckled. “Thanks, man.”

He took his time cleaning himself up again; he fixed his hair up, touched up some empty spots of skin with more body glitter, and took off the dumb fig leaf. With the remaining wait time, he half-chugged a bottle of water and sent a text message out to his little brother, Sam, idly wondering if he was still awake. It was Friday, so there was still the off chance he could be, but he didn’t reply, so Dean slipped his phone back into his bag when Ash gave a lazy knock on the changing room door. Grabbing his satin robe from the hook by the door, he slipped it on over his shoulders, tied the sash, and gave himself one last look in the mirror before leaving the room.

The customer was waiting for him in room 6 at the end of the hall. Not that it mattered, each room was set up the same. He entered the room with a confident smile tacked in place. The customer was seated on the faux leather sofa, arms draped over the back and legs spread wide already, clearly not trying to waste any time. He was one of the men by the bar that Dean had brushed past earlier, but most people that came down here were on one thing or another. It was a testament to Dean’s professionalism how well he put up with the more unruly clientele, so Crowley had discussed with him his first week on the job. It could be worse, probably. Nothing was worse than trying to act as if he were into some truly unfortunate people. Like lives in their mother’s basement or jerks it to Jesus type people. This man looked like he could be an uptight businessman during the week, but he wasn’t the worst looking. Blonde hair, hazel eyes. Shiny dress shoes and a black tie. He was eyeing him in a blatantly predatory way, which should have been a red flag, but in the red light of the room, it did nothing to alert him.

Dean crossed the room and reached for the ipod. “Got a preference?” He always had to ask that. Customer’s came first, pun intended.

“I’d rather not talk,” the man said, motioning with a single finger for Dean to drop the robe. “Just want you to get on with the show.” His speech was slightly slurred, enough for Dean to know he was drunk.

Dean cleared his throat as he scrolled for a second longer, but ultimately he pressed play on whatever song his thumb landed on. It was a mid-tempo beat. Easy to move to. “Whatever you want,” replied Dean with a cocky smirk, despite the man’s stare feeling like ice water pouring over him. Letting the satin material slide off his skin, it pooled around his feet on the fuzzy carpet.

“C’mere,” ordered the customer, who had now reached between his wide legs and was rubbing his half-hard cock through his tailored dress pants. Dean obeyed, crossing the carpet to place himself in front of the man on the couch, thrusting his hips suggestively to the beat coming through the speakers. “Turn around.” So, he did. He circled his ass in the air, bending and twerking and whatever else to please the whims of this total stranger. 

Suddenly the warmth of a rough hand slid over the back of his thigh, fingers skirting the underside of his ass while he was dancing, startling a gasp out of the back of Dean’s throat. “No touching,” he reminded, as delicately as possible, though he could tell this wasn’t the man’s first time doing this. He kept dancing for a short while until the customer demanded he get on his lap. Tossing a knee over the man’s thighs, Dean lowered himself down, desperately disguising his unease by avoiding eye contact. The scent of straight whiskey was coating the air on every heated exhale. Dean swiveled and circled his hips around in this man’s lap, focusing all his energy on just moving to the beat, but he could tell the man beneath him was getting frustrated that Dean wasn’t as into it as he should be. 

“Let me see your ass.”

Dean maneuvered himself around as gracefully as he could and rocked his hips back, thrusting his ass back towards the man. Within seconds, the man’s hands found their way to the exposed skin of Dean’s thighs, groping and inching their way inwards. “No touching,” Dean said, more firmly now, but the man didn’t remove his hands. Instead, he dug his fingers into Dean’s thigh and snaked one around to try to dip into his gold booty shorts. Dean yelped and grabbed at the man’s hands pulling them off himself and attempting to remove himself from the man’s lap altogether. 

“Where do you think you’re goin’?” The man grabbed for Dean’s wrist and pulled him back into his space. It hurt. The skin under his hold burned when Dean tugged at his arm, but he just tightened his grip further.

“Look, pal, I don’t know what you think this is, but it ain’t that kind of place. I don’t do that.”

“You do what I say.” Boldly, he reached forward and cupped the front of Dean’s underwear in a tight fist causing Dean to choke out a gasp and double over. The man released his junk and placed his grip around Dean’s throat instead. “I paid for this and I know for a fact you do that exact kind of thing. Now get on your knees.”

Dean was having a hard time keeping up, but he definitely wasn’t going to get treated like he could be bought. He didn’t have much bodily autonomy in this job, but hell if he wasn’t going to try to dictate who he was going to touch and how. Defiantly, Dean locked eyes with the man before hawking a wad of spit right in his face. “Eat shit.” 

The man let go of his wrist in surprise and to wipe off the spit from the side of his cheek. Dean backed up while he was distracted, but he didn’t get far before the man rose to his feet and crossed the tight space after him, pinning him against the bricks. Before he could process what was happening, the man was laying a blow to the side of Dean’s jaw and moments after, a second blow landed on the high ridge of his cheekbone. Dean must have cried out because Ash came bursting through the door seconds later. He wasn’t much in way of muscle, but he was squirrely enough and managed to tackle the customer away from Dean. Ash told him to “get the fuck out” and after making an attempt to hit Ash too, he finally surrendered, pushing his way past towards the door.

“Shit, you alright? Want me to call the cops?”

Dean brought his finger to the tender flesh near his eye and poked at it with a wince and a hiss. He didn’t break the skin, but it wasn’t going to be pretty come morning. Still, it wasn’t like Dean could afford to take the rest of the night off, so he declined Ash’s offer with a shake of his head. “Just don’t let that fucker back in here.” Ash nodded and went back out to the hall to ensure the man was actually going out the basement exit and not back up to the main floor.

“Fuck,” Dean breathed to himself, stretching out his jaw.

He gathered up his robe from the carpet and shrugged it back on. Heading back down the hall to the changing room, he collected his phone out of his duffle bag and then closed the door to the employee toilet and assessed himself privately in the mirror. The hits were swelling already. He looked like shit. The bastard must have been wearing a ring or something, because there was a raised welt in the center of each hit. 

Slumping down on the toilet seat, Dean took a few calming breaths and checked his phone for any messages from his brother. No texts, but there was a missed call ten minutes ago. Sammy only called this late for one reason, so without hesitation Dean hit the redial. It rang a few times, Dean muttering, “pick up, pick up,” under his breath. On the seventh ring, Sam did.

Dean didn’t even wait for Sam to say anything. “Sammy? What’s wrong? What happened?” 

“It’s fine now, Dean,” Sam assured in a gentle tone.

“What did he do? Did he hit you?” When Sam said “no”, the tension building in Dean’s gut slowly bled out, but he still wasn’t relieved entirely.

“He came home drunk again,” Sam explained. “I’m fine. He destroyed a couple dishes, but I managed to stay out of the way. I’m working on my homework now. What are you doing?”

Dean huffed, but it wasn’t quite a laugh. Sam always tried the redirection route. Somehow, he knew it bothered Dean more than it bothered himself. Or just that Dean was worse at hiding it. “I’m at work,” he said. He wasn’t going to tell Sam the irony in this whole conversation. Sam wouldn’t find it as pathetically funny as Dean did.

“I still don’t know where you work. You said you washed dishes, but I don’t know what dishes you’re washing this late.”

“There’s always going to be dirty dishes to wash, Sammy.” Dean had no intention of Sam ever knowing what exactly he did to scrounge up money. 

“Yeah,” said Sam, sensing Dean’s guard going up, “Alright, Dean, but I still want to visit you sometime.”

“Maybe. I’ll come down for Thanksgiving or something, how’s that? It’s not so far.” Sam gave a reluctant hum, acknowledging Dean brushing him off. “But, hey listen, I gotta get back or else I won’t make enough to send for the groceries and shit. If that fucker tries anything else tonight you call me back and if I don’t answer, give Bobby a ring to come get you, you hear me?”

“Yeah, Dean. I hear you.”

“Atta boy, Sammy.”

They hang up at the same time, but Dean stared at the open contact in his phone for a few minutes longer. He’d be lying to God if he said he didn’t miss the shit out of that kid, but what was he going to do? He didn’t have any other choice. He was just going to have to pretend he was living somebody’s dream to get by. 

The bright facade he had put on for Sam came off as quickly as it came on and those final dregs of tension released themselves by means of Dean’s knuckles hitting the bricks of the bathroom wall. A sharp cry escaped his lips, and he clutched at his bloodied hand, but he felt better already. Or so he convinced himself. He still had another dance to do. 

Looking himself in the mirror one last time, Dean touched up the makeup around his eye, sucking in a hiss every time the puff bounced on his cheek. He washed the red from his knuckles too and waited for Ash to come get him again. Dean would probably get shit for this from Crowley, but right now he still had a job to finish, so he knew it would wait till sometime later. Sometime when it served Crowley best. And within the next few minutes, Dean heard that little knock again.

Fortunately enough, the red lights hid all the evidence.

^^^

After the second dance, Dean collected his things and changed back into his wrinkled street clothes. He’d counted his cash. It wasn’t as much as usual due to the fact the first asshole didn’t tip, but it was enough to send some to Sam at least, and that was one the top of Dean’s list of priorities. He headed up the stairs, cash now securely in his wallet, and left out the rear exit leading to the alley way. 

Dean checked both ways in the alley to ensure there were no drunken strangers out fucking behind the dumpster, before he crawled on top of a metal trash can and reached to pull the fire escape stairs down. They locked in place with a loud scrape reverberating of the narrow walls of the alley, but it couldn’t be helped, he still didn’t have a key to the front. He climbed up to the iron platform quickly and then pulled the steps up behind him. Maneuvering himself up another flight, he came to an unlocked bathroom window and jimmied it open. It was Benny’s. And I guess, technically, it was his too. Climbing through the tight space, Dean hooked a foot on the edge of the pedestal sink and jumped down on the worn bath mat. 

Home sweet fucking home. 

Benny wasn’t there yet, but Dean was quiet anyway. It had been a long day and Dean didn’t want to hear anything else today. Going to the tiny kitchenette, Dean rummaged around in the fridge, grabbed a tupperware of leftover spaghetti and he snagged the bottle of whiskey off the top while he was there. He ate the spaghetti cold and drank the whiskey warm. 

He took a shower to wash the glitter and oil and makeup and whatever else wound up on his skin over the course of the day. And when he got out he didn’t feel good, but it wasn’t something any shower or bottle of Jack was going to wash away, so he pushed it aside, as he was so apt to do. 

It occurred to him that after everything that happened today, Dean still had homework to do himself. The thought of that almost made him laugh to himself. He walked his way over to the couch, now at least with fresh skin and clean sweatpants, and he applied a couple bandages he found in the bathroom cabinet to the cracked skin on his knuckles. 

Lazily he reached for his backpack propped against the far end of the couch and he pulled his Art History textbook out and attempted to read the assigned pages. He tried for quite a while even, but he couldn’t concentrate. His mind kept drifting back to Castiel and what he had said to him this afternoon. Implying Dean was just a body waiting to be bought out. And Dean had felt so angry at him for saying it. For implying that all Dean was after was his money. But was he even wrong? Dean wasn’t a hooker, but at the end of the day what was really the difference? It’s not like he wanted to be a stripper, but wanting to be doesn’t matter if you’re out there doing it anyway. 

Tossing the book aside as a lost cause, Dean reached over the back of the couch to grab his blanket. He fluffed his pillow resting against the arm of the couch, and nestled into it, convincing himself it was a lot more comfortable than it actually was. It had to be because what other option did he have? As he laid down, facing the back of the couch, he heard the jingling of keys in the door and the soft click of the door jamb. He heard Benny rustle with his coat and hat, hanging them on the hook by the door as he always does. Benny paused for a moment behind Dean, but eventually slipped past not wanting to wake him. Not knowing that Dean wasn’t even fully asleep yet, but Dean pretended to be just to avoid another unwanted interaction. He could only take so many in a 24 hour time frame and his quota had been met this afternoon in Castiel’s office.

Even after everything else, Dean was angry. A sour feeling eating at the back of his throat and bubbling up in his gut, namely because Castiel was supposed to be different than everybody else. Castiel wasn’t supposed to be the one to make Dean feel like the shit on someone else’s shoes. Castiel was the only person in weeks that had looked at Dean like he was a whole person and not just another human tragedy. Castiel was the only one in a long time that made Dean feel like the sun shined out of his ass and like he might actually be worth more than the shit he has to do to get by. 

Drugs were funny like that, he supposed. And when sleep finally did come, it really didn’t make him feel any better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we'll stay with Dean for a couple of chapters. He's a complicated little guy.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some more Dean for ya'll. We'll get back to Cas eventually, I swear!

Benny had tried to talk to him come afternoon. He was standing over a fry pan fixing himself breakfast, Dean was working on his homework on the couch, when he tried to broach the subject of last night. Dean could feel his walls going up right when Benny walked into the room, awake earlier than usual. That guy slept like the dead most days and only woke up for dinner. Dean supposed that was what happened when one gets accustomed to the night life, but Benny never usually wavered in his schedule, not especially for Dean anyway. Not to talk about important things. Not to talk about things Dean didn’t want to talk about. 

“Wanna tell me what happened?” 

Benny plated up some scrambled eggs on two plates and grabbed some forks from the drawer waiting for an answer. The question was straight forward enough, but for whatever reason the answer wasn’t. He brought them over and set one plate in front of Dean on the coffee table, letting him choose to eat it if he wanted to. And Dean did eat it, but only because it served as a way to avoid the conversation. His jaw felt swollen and it hurt to chew. Dean knew if he got up and looked in the bathroom mirror right now the skin on his face would be dark with deep purples and blues. It would be worse than it looked last night.

“Not much to tell,” Dean said, once he was out of food. “I was stupid and I paid for it.” He pointed to the side of his face. “Shoulda known better.”

“That ain’t the story I heard from Ash.”

“Well, Ash would know better than me, I guess,” Dean bristled. 

Dean’s job required a certain level of vulnerability. He knew that going into it, but he knew he needed money more and a place to stay. Crowley had agreed to offer him both those things if he agreed to work downstairs. He was looking for a twink, he’d said, and apparently Dean fit the bill. Most days it was easy enough to deal with when you could clock in and pretend to be some other guy for the night. Some other personality. A new fake name. You go in, you do what you have to, and then you strip it off at the end of the night. But this wasn’t the kind of thing Dean could just strip off. This was physical. He had to bear the mark on his face like some twisted scarlet letter branding him a whore for everyone else to see. Someone that gets paid to submit to strange men’s whims and fantasies. Someone that gets treated like a thing. And Dean knew for certain now what he didn’t last night: Castiel had been right. A whore is a whore is a whore.

It wasn’t all just physical though. There was the fact that man felt so comfortable and at ease groping him. Dean was an object that could be bought for a price. Apparently that price afforded total strangers access to Dean’s body without his consent despite the clear rules stating otherwise. It was rare that Dean genuinely wanted any of his customers to touch him back. But what was Dean going to do? Go to the police? Tell them that a man sexually assaulted him while working at one of the seediest clubs in the city? A club known on the streets for its liberal service of happy endings? No. No cops. Dean wasn’t going to risk losing the pay or the place to stay. He was hoping he hadn’t already jeopardized either just from what happened last night.

“Well, you know I’m here for you, man, if you want to talk about it,” offered Benny with a clunky pat to the chest. He was being genuine, but Dean didn’t plan on wanting to talk about it in this lifetime, so he picked up his textbook and drowned himself in it.

***

By Monday the color had faded only slightly. He’d tried concealing it the best he could upon leaving the apartment, but he still received offhanded glances walking to and around campus. The color still bled through at the edges.

“What about Aaron?” asked Charlie, apropos of nothing. 

They hadn’t said much to each other since Charlie spotted the mottled bruising on Dean’s cheek and jaw earlier in Anthropology. Dean brushed it off as having hit it while opening a door, but Charlie was a smart girl, and Dean wasn’t dumb enough to believe she bought it. Maybe she thought Dean just got into a regular fist fight like a regular guy. Lord knew he never planned on telling her otherwise.

Charlie walked beside him, her bag slung over her shoulder, denim jacket in her arms. Dean was carrying just an apple with him, but he knew Charlie would offer some of her lunch. Normally he would decline, but after having to miss the rest of his shifts at the club over the weekend due to the worsened state of his face and hand, and having sent enough to Sam to eat for the week, he wasn’t in a position to decline friendly hospitality. In fact, he was banking on it. 

They were walking towards the green to eat as the question caught up to him. “Wait… who? What are we talking about?”

“Aaron,” she repeated, as if by saying the name again it would clear everything up. She let out an exasperated sigh at Dean’s blank face. “From Art History.”

The descriptor did nothing to clue Dean in to the conversation they weren’t having. “Uh… What about him?”

“He’s cute, don’t you think?” She searched his face in a giddy sort of way. Like they were spilling who their crushes were at a middle school sleepover.

Dean had no idea who Aaron even was. “Um, Charlie, I hate to be the one to break it to you… but you’re gay.”

Charlie afforded him a withering look as they came to rest in a nice, grassy area under the big tree. “You’re hilarious, Dean. Aren’t you gay too?”

“I’m bi, actually. Thanks for askin’.” Dean grinned like a brat as he bit into his apple, hoping it would hold him over till his shift at the Roadhouse later. He was practically dreaming of a free cheeseburger.

“That’s besides the point, Dean, but duly noted.” 

Unzipping her backpack, Charlie pulled out a brown paper sack. By the smell of it, it was a burrito and Dean couldn’t help, but watch as Charlie bit into it. She noticed. Of course she did. But who in their right mind would share a burrito? Instead, she reached inside the paper bag and offered Dean the packet of tortilla chips and guacamole, and he politely declined twice, before snatching it out of her hands. 

“You never answered the question,” she helpfully supplied after a few minutes, obviously not letting this topic go for whatever reason.

“I’m gonna be honest with you, Charles. Couldn’t even pick the kid out of a lineup.” And it was honest. Dean could say under the wrath of God that he had never met an Aaron before in his life, let alone seen one he thought was cute. Maybe Aaron Carter when he was in middle school? But he never told anyone that, not even Sam, and Dean doubted it was him.

“He sits behind you!”

Now it made sense. Dean’s sole attention for the last month had been transfixed on one point at the front of the room. His attention didn’t leave room for outliers. The only other person in class he paid any attention to was Charlie. “Well, if he’s behind me, how would I know what he looks like?”

Charlie facepalmed. “Oh, I dunno, Dean, because you have eyes.”

“A technicality,” he joked, chuckling at her impatience.

She ate another mouthful of burrito while Dean picked at the chips, making sure he didn’t eat them too fast. That would only cause Charlie to become even more concerned and Dean didn’t need that. Didn’t want that. He wasn’t a charity case. He especially wasn’t going to be one for his friends.

“Well,” she continued, swallowing her mouthful, “I think that you’re both cute and you’re both single and you should give him a chance.” 

Dean rolled his eyes. “Just because we both like dick doesn’t mean we’re destined to be together. I figured you of all people would know that.”

“It’s not about that! Have you seen the way he looks at you in class? Dude’s totally harboring a serious crush and, I mean, what’s the harm in it?”

There wasn’t any harm in it. And Dean really hadn’t seen the way this Aaron kid looked at him in class. But nothing about the scenario running through his head was sending off any fireworks. Aaron probably wasn’t even cute.

“He put you up to this?” Charlie pointedly took another bite, a sly smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. 

When Dean looked up, Castiel was walking by with Professor Roche on the other side of the green coming back from the cafeteria, one monopolizing the entire conversation as the other nodded along. And Dean recognized him. Professor Roche. He was at the club too. With Castiel. Dean couldn’t figure out their relationship then and he couldn’t figure it out now as they bumped into each other a bit when they walked. Rationally speaking, Dean had no right to be jealous, not after what he said last week, but that burning feeling ate away at him anyway. Dean wasn’t being rational, so he had no room for rational thought. Castiel glanced their way across the green catching Dean’s eye, but he quickly diverted it, offering a small wave to Charlie as Dean registered her wave was what caught his attention in the first place.

“I’ll think about it, how’s that?” He finally conceded under Charlie’s unwavering focus. “What would a lesbian know about a cute guy, anyway?” Dean joked, knocking shoulders with her under the shade. 

“Probably not much,” she agreed. “But I will say this,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially, “Lesbian or not, Professor Novak is freakin’ dreamy, right? Can we at least agree on that?”

Dean’s lips parted, but they were absent of intent. His eyes flicked between hers, clearly ignorant of everything Dean’s kept close to his sleeve. He swallowed in an attempt to unstick some words. “Yeah, I guess,” he breathed out, running his fingers through his short hair to soothe himself, “He’s alright. I don’t see what the big deal is, though.” But he paused a second too long.

“Ooooo,” Charlie exclaimed, “Do you have a crush on Professor Novak?”

She was talking low. Not a whisper, but not loud enough for anyone around them to hear. Still, Dean could feel that latent anger from a few days ago threatening to rear its head in his gut. It had only been suppressed because he hadn’t had to face him yet. Dean couldn’t promise how he would feel come Art History class tomorrow. None of that was Charlie’s fault, though. It was Castiel’s. It was some stranger in the dark. It was Dean’s.

“No, I just think he’s kind of a dick. I mean, a pretty face doesn’t make up for an ugly personality,” explained Dean, getting to his feet and wiping the grass off the back off his ripped jeans. 

“I dunno, Dean,” she said, collecting her garbage and joining Dean in standing, “I think he seems nice.” 

They grabbed their bags off the ground and meandered down the sidewalk, taking their time to get to their next classes before they had to part their separate ways. Charlie had a Graphic Design class next and promised to meet Dorothy before it started. Dean had Algebra. They kept walking, talking about inconsequential things, until they came to Dean’s stop. She wrapped him in a tight squeeze, Dean breathing out a light chuckle against her fiery hair in an attempt to make it light, but Charlie had little idea how much Dean loved those hugs. How much he needed them, after everything. Like maybe if she squeezed hard enough the pieces of himself would get stuck back together. But that was too much to ask, so he laughed and let her go.

“Love you, bitch,” said Charlie with a light punch to his shoulder.

“I know,” Dean smiled.

“I’ll text you about the Art History paper later so we can screw it up together.” Walking backwards, she gave him a Star Trek salute, which Dean returned to the best of his abilities, before she continued down the sidewalk. Dean just shook his head with a fond smile as he opened the entrance. 

Being around Charlie was different than everyone else. She knew nothing about his past, or even his present. Knew nothing about the abuse like Sam. Knew nothing about the stripping like Benny. Knew nothing about that moment between himself and Professor Novak. She knew Dean for what he wanted her to know him for. And maybe it was wrong to hide the real you from your newest best friend, but it was a necessary evil. Dean didn’t want to spoil the only clean relationship he had. 

He did that enough just by being there.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had the time to squeeze out the next chapter and I'm too impatient to wait around to post it, so I hope you like it! I'm working on some art to go with this too. xo

The kitchen at the Roadhouse was a tight squeeze. There was the dishwashing station on one end and the food prep station on the other, closest to the swinging door. Most nights it was just Dean on dish duty and Chuck manning the grill without room for much else. The Roadhouse didn’t exactly serve gourmet fare so it wasn’t really necessary to have more than one cook as it were. Chuck usually did a pretty okay job keeping up with the orders, while Dean handled the clean up. Sometimes he bussed the tables if need be, but usually Jo had that covered while Ellen worked the bar. It was a small, family-run joint. There was no need for extra staff. Hell, Dean considered himself lucky that there had been an opening for a dishwasher in the window one night while he was walking to his apartment from campus. He needed the extra cash, because while the club paid out big when it paid, it was never reliable and Dean had to worry about taking care of Sammy as well as himself. 

Chuck was a weird little guy, all things considered. Quirky. Kind of fidgety. And usually pretty quiet most nights. That was fine by Dean, he didn’t want to get stuck in an endless rotation of small talk every shift either. Somehow, after having started at the club, things like small talk seemed to be just that. Small. There was way more fucked up shit happening out in the world, down the street even, than asking about the weather. But sometimes it would have been alright to pass the time between rushes. Chuck made a mean burger though.

The grill sizzled as another burger patty was slapped down on the cooktop. The sharp hiss and crackle of fat echoed past the sounds of the sprayer nozzle in the sink as Dean worked. He had on those obnoxiously yellow rubber gloves and a useless hairnet strapped over his short hair. The front of his shirt and apron were drenched with dirty dish water. All in all, he was a mess, but what did it even matter back here? Chuck didn’t look any better than he did. 

The dishes bobbed and sunk in the soapy water as Dean fished them out and hosed them down. It wasn’t busy, it was only a Monday after all. When the last dish in the sink had been put to the side, Dean found himself wandering over to the other side of the kitchen to watch Chuck work, plunking himself down off to the side on the wooden stool by the phone.

Chuck jumped a little at the motion caught in the corner of his eye. “Hey, Dean,” he said, voice squeaky. “How’s it going?”

If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d say Chuck were on something, but he did know better, and he knew that Ellen would never allow that. Maybe he might have had some trouble in the past that made him fidget so much. Who was Dean to judge anyway? So, he chose to ignore it. 

“Not so much,” he replied, “Slow night. Just wanted to see how you make the burgers so good, I guess.”

“Oh- Yeah, I- I don’t really do anything too special.” He picked up the spatula and gently flipped the half-done patties, met by another loud crackle. “The trick is not to press them, really.”

“That’s it?” Dean was skeptical. There had to be some other trick. Anybody could just not do something. 

“I swear to God.”

“Well, if you’re bringing God into it, maybe you’re tellin’ the truth,” Dean chuckled and Chuck gave a nervous laugh back. 

The second Chuck started trying to puzzle together the side of Dean’s face he looked away. Dean absently watched the burgers cooking on the grill until Jo came pushing through the swinging door like her ass was being chased with a chainsaw. “Whoa, where’s the fire?” She didn’t answer and ran towards the emergency exit leading to the dumpsters. As soon as the top half of her was out the door, she was leaning over the step heaving next to the trash can. She waited a few minutes in case she wasn’t finished, but when she seemed certain she wasn’t going to hurl again she closed the door and leaned against it looking pale with a thin sheen of sweat on her upper lip. “What the hell, Jo? You tryin’ to fertilize the garbage or something?”

“Funny, Dean.” She took a deep breath to calm herself and maybe to still the churning in her stomach. “I was comin’ back to give Chuck another order. I wasn’t plannin’ on losing my lunch back here.” 

“You should go home,” piped up Chuck, “I mean it’s not exactly sanitary for you to be back here.”

It wasn’t the first time in the last week that she’d complained of feeling not so fresh, but it wasn’t really Dean’s business so he didn’t feel he should add his two cents. Now, though, it was a little different. “Dude’s got a point. You should take care of yourself first. Besides, we don’t want whatever you’ve got.”

Jo rolled her eyes. “What about the tables?” Her skin seemed to turn more green by the second, and by the looks of it, she didn’t seem done.

Dean quirked his lips. “It’s not that busy. I mean, I’ve finished all my shit back here for now. I’ve never waited tables, but I can probably figure it out.” There was a small rumble in her stomach, her eyes shooting wide, then she was leaning her head out the back door again. How she had more to lose, Dean couldn’t be sure, but it sounded disgusting enough. “That a ‘yes’?” Jo fumbled around in her apron pocket for her order pad and shoved it back towards Dean. So it was.

Jo gathered her coat and purse from the hook quickly and went back to the front to tell her mom, Ellen, she would meet her at home and that Dean would be taking care of the tables. She didn’t seem to object from what Dean could overhear through the din of the speakers and the few diners. She actually seemed impressed that Dean had offered to do it at all and that came as a bit of a shock to Dean’s system. People weren’t usually impressed by Dean for anything other than his face. He was just there. He wasn’t impressive. But he allowed himself to have this one moment, just because of how rare it was.

Turning his attention back to the order pad, Dean noted the order placed was for Table 4 around the corner. A bacon cheeseburger and some sort of frilly salad type deal. He tore the sheet out and hung it up on the hood in front of Chuck just because he knew that was wear Jo always puts the orders. It was easy enough at least. Chuck threw on another burger and went back into the walk-in to grab some lettuce and cheese and whatever else went into a salad. Dean didn’t make it a point to know; salad was for rabbits not people.

While he waited for the order to cook, Dean removed his hairnet and fluffed his short, spiky tufts of hair between his fingers, trying desperately to removed the lattice hatching from the fishnet. He grabbed a fresh, black apron from the box in the closet too. The Roadhouse might not have been known for its class, but nobody needed to see him soaked with dirty dishwater while they were trying to eat. Taking a glance at himself in the reflective surface of the walk-in door, he nodded at his appearance. He looked okay-ish besides the bruise on his face being a little more visible as the day wore on and his makeup wore off. Oh well. It couldn’t be helped. He didn’t make it a point to carry makeup with him either and this wasn’t the kind of hiccup he’d planned for. He’d just have to make the service quick.

Dean grabbed the first couple burgers in the meantime, and delivered them to the two burly guys sitting by the bar. They seemed confused that Dean wasn’t a perky, young, blonde girl. “I’m fillin’ in tonight,” Dean explained to their bewildered faces, setting down the plates of food. One of the men was looking him up and down appraisingly. There wasn’t anything to it, Dean convinced himself, but some part of him thought if he endured it any longer he might end up puking in the alley like Jo. He swallowed it down. “Holler if you need anything, someone’ll hear you.” He gave the two men the best smile he could muster and returned to the kitchen.

Slouching by the door, it came to his attention just then that he didn’t really know how to interact with a customer unless he was half naked and shaking his ass in their face, but he could do better than that. It was just they were staring too long and Dean got uncomfortable when anybody stared at him, rightfully so. Especially when he was sporting a shiner the size of Texas. He didn’t need to feel any worse about it.

The sound of Chuck tapping the dinner bell with the back of his spatula pulled Dean out of his own head. “Order up,” he said, despite the fact Dean was standing right next to him. 

“I’m right here, y’know,” said Dean, walking over to gather the cheeseburger and salad in both hands.

“Yeah, I know. I just like hitting the bell.”

Dean rolled his eyes as he backed out of the swinging door. 

Table 4 was located around the corner from the kitchen, by the window. Chuck filled the salad bowl extra high for whatever reason and it was a longer walk over there, so Dean carried the plates carefully around the potted ficuses and weaved through the couple empty tables crowding the middle of the floor. There was only one guy seated at the table under the glow of the tacky string lights, but Dean could see there were drinks set down already for two. Hastily, Dean came up behind the dark-haired man and set the plates down fast out of subconscious fear that he might mess up. He didn’t want to disappoint Ellen, after all. 

“One bacon cheeseburger, courtesy of God himself, and one… whatever the hell this is,” he said with a small chuckle. 

“Dean?” The customer uttered the word in disbelief.

Dean faltered. He knew that voice all too well by now, but he’d never heard it shape that word and the sound of it, the deep, gravelled pitch of it, felt like an electrical surge tumbling down his spine. Surely, he would have remembered that feeling before. 

Reluctantly drawing his eyes up, the only thing Dean was met by was a familiar pair of calming ocean blue’s which, ironically enough, looked like they were seeing a ghost. They stayed like that for a few moments too long. Eyes wavering ever so slightly between each other as Dean stood taller and backed away. They were practically boring holes into each other over the sticky, crumb-covered table.

Castiel cleared his throat first. “What- what are you doing here?”

Looking down at his apron and then towards the food he just set down, Dean returned his gaze back to Castiel’s. “I thought it was pretty obvious…” he said, awkwardly scratching at the back of his neck.

A slight shade of pink started to form on the apple of Castiel’s cheeks. “Yes, of course. I just wasn’t expecting to see you here.” 

He was obviously trying to assign some sort of context to this interaction. His eyes scanned over Dean, cataloguing him like a new exotic species that had never been discovered or like a zoo animal that was out of its habitat enclosure. Dean couldn’t decide which, but he could feel his synapses firing in every direction. The constant push and pull of ‘don’t look at me’ and ‘never stop looking’. Castiel returned his eyes to Dean’s face, but then they diverted to the left, absorbing the deep purple settled in there. 

“Yeah, well, enjoy the food,” said Dean without bothering to put on the customary smile. 

Dean felt the unexpected, gentle warmth of a strong hand curling around his wrist just as he began to walk away. “Dean, wait…” And Dean did, but only because Castiel wouldn’t let go.

“What?” He turned back to face him, but his brain was hyper-focused on the heat where their skin met. 

What right did Castiel have to touch him here? In this place? To touch him at all? He made his point clear enough the other day and Dean hadn’t forgotten what he said.

Castiel let go like his hand had been burned, but he was still staring at the side of Dean’s face. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Are you alright?”

Dean let out a breathy, scathing kind of laugh that burned his tongue. “What’s it to you?”

And really, what was it to Castiel? 

Castiel turned his gaze to some foggy middle point in the center of Dean’s chest, murky resolve soaking his features. “Nothing, I suppose. You don’t owe me an explanation; I know I haven’t earned the right given my recent behavior. I’m simply concerned for your safety.” His eyes flashed to Dean’s again to collect whatever unreadable expression Dean knew he was doling out. 

Of course. Here he came in and tried to play the sympathy card offered from empty hands. The knight in shining armor for doing the bare fucking minimum. The pathetic part was, Dean wanted to let him.

Dean’s silence prompted him to speak up again. “I just want to know, are you safe?” 

Somehow, Castiel’s soft, blue stare felt like a lead weight on Dean’s chest. The feeling caused an all too familiar prickling sensation to needle its way into the backs of his eyes and his throat felt thick from everything he wanted to say after all that had happened. He wanted to unload his burden on somebody and here was somebody asking about him at all. But he swallowed the feeling down; vulnerability had no place here. He didn’t need the sympathy. Didn’t want it. Not from Castiel.

Dean scanned the table, looking for anything to take the pressure off himself. He didn’t know why he was even still standing there, but Castiel’s stare was nailing him to the spot and he hated how it made his insides squirm. Noting the salad sat idly on the opposite side of the table, Dean reached for the out. He scoffed. “So, what are you on a date or somethin’? What kinda person actually takes someone to a shithole like the Roadhouse for date night?” He asked it clumsily, but with an added acidic bite. 

Now it was Castiel’s turn to falter. He noticed the redirection, but chose to respect it. “Actually, I wanted to come here,” he corrected, returning a hint of Dean’s venom, “And it’s not--”

“Sorry I was gone so long, Darling. I received a phone call, but everything is taken care of now, I promise. Oh! How wonderful, the food is here. I’m absolutely starving!” 

Castiel’s date was easy enough to recognize by his snobby British accent alone. Having sensed the awkward tension strung taught between them, Professor Roche hovered in his seat, eyes darting back and forth like ping-pong balls. “I’m sorry, did I interrupt something?”

“No,” they returned in unison without breaking eye contact.

A note of recognition passed over Professor Roche’s face as he watched Castiel watching Dean. “Enjoy your food,” said Dean with a layer of phony politeness. 

And as he stormed his way towards the kitchen, feeling Castiel’s eyes burning holes in the back of his head, he overheard a badly concealed attempt at a whisper: “Wasn’t that the stripper?”

Wasn’t Dean more than that?

^^^

Later, when Dean returned to Table 4 to hand them the bill, Castiel and Professor Roche were already gone. They left more than enough money sat on the table, though, practically tipping Dean the same amount as the bill. Most servers would be ecstatic probably. Jo would have been. She would have came skipping into the kitchen shoving it in Dean’s face if she’d ever been tipped that much. But taking the folded bills in his hand, Dean just felt cheap. Like Castiel got one good look at Dean behind the curtain and suddenly he was the human tragedy again instead of some glorified piece of ass. Neither option were particularly good, but one was certainly better than the other. He didn’t want Castiel’s money. He gave it back at the club for this exact reason and maybe another that Dean wasn’t allowing to come to the surface right now. What did it matter anyway? He was obviously taken. But he had missed a couple shifts at the club over the weekend and he couldn’t afford not to take it, so as much as he hated himself for doing it, he pocketed the money and bit back the bitter taste staining the back of his throat. 

Dean sat sulking in the kitchen for a long time after, convincing himself he wasn’t. He simmered on it for a while, and Chuck didn’t say anything about it. He’d never been so grateful for silence in his life. Ellen picked up bill from the men by the bar, so Dean hung in the back with Chuck while they split a burger between them with an order of fries. At least he could say he ate a real meal today thanks to this place. They always gave him food, and not because it was charity, but because they just didn’t sweat the small stuff like that. But despite the food sitting warm in his stomach, the anger was still eating away at his gut. 

Who did Castiel think he was anyway? 

If he thought he could just cut himself into Dean’s life whenever and wherever it suited him, he had another thing coming. 

If he thought he could just pretend Dean didn’t exist and nothing happened whenever he pleased, then he had another coming. 

If he thought he was entitled to know anything about Dean, the very same guy he accused of being a money hungry whore, then he had another fucking thing coming.

Mulling it over on his cold walk back to his dump of an apartment, Dean decided if there really were only two options currently on the table, he was just going to have to make room for a third.


	10. Chapter 10

“Wasn't that the stripper?” 

Balthazar proceeded to casually shovel a fork full of salad into his mouth as he looked between Castiel and the still swinging door Dean had just disappeared behind. 

After a few collective beats, Castiel peeled his eyes away to level Balthazar with a disbelieving glare. “Really?”

“What?” he asked, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with his paper napkins. Balthazar looked utterly dumbfounded as to why Castiel sounded so pissy.

“You don't suppose you could have possibly said that any louder, do you?” 

Balthazar considered it over another loud crunch of lettuce. “Sorry,” he muttered between bites, “My apologies.”

“Yes, well, it's not me you should be apologizing to, but I guess that can't be helped now,” chastised Castiel. He would be surprised if Dean returned to the table at all, given how that whole interaction transpired. 

“Oh, I’m the one that owes an apology, is it? Are you absolutely positive you’re not projecting?” Balthazar was never good at discerning when his input was unnecessary and he really never knew when to stop talking. 

Castiel rolled his eyes, but Balthazar was right, despite how much he didn’t want to admit that right now. He was all too aware of the stupid things that he’d said these last few weeks. To Dean in particular. Dean just had that way about him that inspired Castiel’s higher brain power to malfunction at the worst opportunity. When it came to making a bad situation worse, Castiel may as well have been crowned royalty. But it wasn’t Dean’s fault any of this happened. Dean didn’t force him to get a lapdance and looking back on it now, knowing everything he knew now, Castiel couldn’t adequately convince himself that he would have changed anything about that moment... save for maybe the ‘no touching’ rule. He couldn’t safely go down that road though, so he backpedalled. No, it wasn’t even Balthazar’s fault if Castiel was being honest with himself. Feigning ignorance was decidedly stupid. Asking Dean to do so in return was worse. But now sitting here at this sticky table in a “shithole like the Roadhouse”, that gnawing feeling that had been eating away at him all weekend was back with a vengeance. 

He couldn’t believe he’d deigned accuse Dean of only being after his money without knowing anything about him. Yet here Dean was, at what Castiel could only assume was his second job, earning his money just like everyone else. 

He had seen the sharp sting in Dean’s eyes staring back at him. They were hurt. They were offended. Angry. Dean had every right to be because what Castiel had implied the other day was offensive and, in a way, to some small degree, Castiel had thought if it hurt a little then Dean would have felt dissuaded from his vague pursuit. 

But was that really what Castiel wanted out of all this?

The entire weekend Castiel had reluctantly weighed his options. He had attempted not to think anything about Dean at all, even went so far as to focus on grading course work and rearranging some lesson plans, but as with most things regarding Dean, that didn’t work. He had no choice, but to confront himself. Really look long and hard in the proverbial mirror. Which was no easy feat, because at the end of the day, Castiel didn’t know the real Dean. He only had the faintest idea he’d created from one hazy, drunken night and weeks worth of poorly disguised observation. He had put that golden idea of Dean up on a pedestal from the second he laid eyes on him. Dean had been an object worthy of admiration and intrigue. Lust. Viewed only through rose-tinted glasses. But that was before the universe decided to play its hand. Castiel never allowed for the possibility that Dean could be so much more than an idea. That Dean could be just as much of a mess as he was. Just as broken. Just as human. He realized that now though, looking into his eyes again for what felt like the first time all over again. An altogether new experience. A new Dean. His eyes were vulnerable, but doing everything in their power not to be. A shuttered window to the real Dean. And though the lighting in the Roadhouse was dim, the glow of the tacky string lights provided Castiel with just enough light to see the truth for what it was. 

Fixing his sights on the cheeseburger going cold in front of him, Castiel hesitantly brought it to his mouth and minded the drips of grease that fell over the plate. He had come here twice before this since that first time specifically for this order and he was never one to have too little of a good thing. Once he found something he liked he wanted it all the time. This was the only time he had seen Dean here though. He hadn’t even known Dean worked here at all before this, let alone could have been here each time he was. 

Somehow, this time the cheeseburger didn’t taste as good.

When the two of them finished their meal, they waited for a few minutes, biding time. Castiel was idly plucking at the button on his shirt sleeve and watching the happy couple strolling by along the waterfront while Balthazar watched him. Balthazar was just waiting for the bill, Castiel was waiting to see if Dean would return to the table at all. He wanted to take another long, searching look at his bruised face, his scuffed knuckles, despite knowing he had no right to do so. It wasn’t his place to care for Dean in any capacity beyond a concerned professor worried for a troubled student. But who was he kidding? They’d never just been a professor and student. How could they have been given the nature of their first meeting and everything that followed? And he did care about Dean, in a way that wasn’t at all appropriate given their dynamic, but it was there all the same. He could discern that small feeling blooming somewhere behind his ribs. A soft spot forming in the carefully constructed mantle around his heart that threatened to take the whole thing down if he didn’t find a way to mend it. It was just as vague as Dean’s motivations, but it wasn’t any less real. He had no explanation for why it was there, but the feeling inside Castiel wanted to reach out and ground its roots. 

After about five minutes had passed, Balthazar let out an annoyed huff. “I will say this,” he said, reaching into his trouser pocket for his leather wallet, “The blonde girl may not be the most charming server I’ve ever encountered, but her service was infinitely more prompt.” He thumbed through the bills in his wallet and pulled out what Castiel could surmise as being far more than what the actual bill called for. He waved them around a bit for Castiel’s benefit before laying them on the table. 

It was meant as a nice gesture, Castiel thought. Anyone else would think so, but most people weren’t accused of selling themselves for money and he didn’t think Dean would take to it so kindly given recent events. “I don’t think that’s necessary, Bal.” He tried for nonchalant.

“Nonsense,” scoffed Balthazar, waving him off. “Aren’t you always going on about me not being such a Scrooge and to leave better tips when we go out?” He had a point. Castiel always had to nudge him to tip better, but this was kind of a special case.

“The food here is definitely not that expensive,” Castiel offered as a counterpoint, brows furrowing a bit in the middle.

“A generous tip,” he explained. “To offer my apologies.”

Castiel gave a slight nod and a hum. “Of course,” he said. He wasn’t going to win this one anyway.

They stood and collected their coats, but still no sign of Dean. It was unfortunate because Castiel wanted to give Dean a genuine, well-deserved apology, not one bore under false pretenses and anger, but it would have to wait. There was always tomorrow, he decided.

Castiel sighed, shrugging his trench coat on as he followed Balthazar out onto the sidewalk. The night air was beginning to catch a slight chill coming off the water this time of year and the breeze bit through the material of his jacket, so he tugged it around himself a little tighter and buried his hands in the deep pockets. They walked in relative silence, spare the low sound of the soft waves crashing out to sea and the occasional din of traffic as they ambled along the waterfront. The pinpricks of light were glittering off the black surface between waves.

“You know,” started Castiel, chewing the inside of his cheek, “before you arrived back at the table, Dean… He thought we were on a date.” Castiel was musing more to himself than anything. “He thinks we’re together. I never got the chance to correct him.” He let out a soft snort at the whole situation, gently shaking his head.

Balthazar glanced over, taking in Castiel’s profile highlighted against the dark water by the glow of the streetlamp overhead. He hummed a slight sound of acknowledgment. “Is the notion that ridiculous? Us being together?” Castiel stopped to search his face, head tilting, brows pinching in confused question. “We were together, I mean,” Balthazar explained. “Before.” It wasn’t as if Castiel had forgotten. “I suppose I’m just not sure why the assumption would be such a leap to make. Or why it would be amusing for that matter.”

“Not ridiculous,” assured Castiel. “Just incorrect.” He resumed his gait once more, not wanting to be late for the next train pick-up. He wasn’t sure what point Balthazar was trying to make. Of course he hadn’t forgotten they’d been together before. How could he forget? Balthazar wouldn’t let him. “I don’t want to give the wrong impression to anyone.”

“Right. Of course not.” 

Balthazar’s gaze was hazy and drifted off out to sea. He cleared his empty throat a bit, before opening his mouth with the intention to say more. He looked as though he were still trying to formulate how best to deliver his message, lest it be ill received. Based entirely on that look alone, Castiel knew it would be.

“What?” asked Castiel through narrowed eyes.

Balthazar raised his hands, but answered anyway. “No, it’s nothing. I simply wanted to say I had a wonderful time with you as usual, all things considered.”

“Thank you… But you’re acting strange.” He was acting jealous. Of what, Castiel hadn’t the faintest clue. Or maybe Castiel was just on edge.

“As I said, it’s nothing, I assure you. I just have a few issues on my mind. Work-related, of course. Just ignore me.”

“Alright...” he accepted, skeptically.

Castiel knew he was lying. Balthazar always told him about his “work-related issues”. In fact, he’d done nothing else on their walk back from lunch that same afternoon. But Castiel didn’t press. He knew if he did, he would press the real issue up and out of his mouth and whatever it was could stay lodged right where it was stuck. Castiel didn’t want more crap piling up. If it was about Dean, he didn’t want to hear it. He especially didn’t want to hear it if it was another poor attempt at a pick-up line.

Eventually the pair parted ways at the train stop, Balthazar continuing on foot in the opposite direction, while Castiel waited to catch the next incoming ride. It wasn’t a particularly long wait, or a particularly long ride from the waterfront to his apartment, for which he was grateful because he could already feel the dregs of fatigue pulling at the backs of his eyes. Sleep sounded good, but work came first.

^^^

Castiel arrived at his apartment door no less than ten minutes later, shoving the key in the lock. Michelangelo was waiting on the other side of the door without fail for his dinner. 

“I know,” he cooed, “I’m late again. I’m terrible aren’t I? Please forgive me?” 

He placed his briefcase down on the side of the couch as he shrugged out of his coat and hung it by the door. Toeing out of his dress shoes, he trudged into the kitchen with Michelangelo hot on his heels. The cat hungrily scarfed down the unappealing mush Castiel slopped down into his bowl. He wrinkled his nose at the overpowering smell of tuna, but cats were picky like that. He learned not to mess with a good thing.

Making his way into the bedroom, he began stripping out of his dress shirt and tie. He undid his belt buckle and slid it out of the belt loops, hanging it over the back of the chair in the corner. His suit jacket and pants went on their usual hanger at the front of the closet and his dress shirt was thrown in the laundry basket by the bathroom. Showering could be left for the morning he thought, as he pulled on a loose t-shirt from the dresser drawer. 

The cold, comforting aura of fresh sheets surrounded him as he sunk into his mattress with his computer booting up on his lap. Once it displayed the feline rendition of the ‘Creation of Adam’, Castiel clicked around to find the slideshows he had prepared for this weeks lectures. They were to be finally discussing Michelangelo this week and, mildly put, Castiel was ecstatic for obvious reasons. Though the course was based primarily on Mediterranean sculpture, Castiel always made a bit of an exception for Michelangelo. He wanted to discuss the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel, as well as the drawing exhibition that had been displayed at the museum, he just wasn’t sure how or where to segue the lecture to his sculpture. And, of course, there was _David_. 

For a few minutes, Castiel reviewed his notes, despite knowing Michelangelo’s work like the back of his hand. After what must have felt like twenty minutes more, Castiel released a long yawn as he wiped away the moisture collecting in his eyes. He would just have to wing it and hope the students understood the relevance of all mediums of art and how they influenced and played off one another. Drawing, after all, was the fundamental basis for all other mediums. 

Closing up the laptop, he placed it on the nightstand and reached to turn the light off too. He climbed under the covers and nestled himself in, waiting for the inevitable leap from his cat to join him at the foot of the bed.

As he willed himself to drift off to a relatively early sleep, Castiel’s mind inevitably drifted to Dean simply because he didn’t want it to. He knew he had a problem. He felt like a middle school girl with a crush and it was embarrassing, but Dean had some kind of enigmatic gravitational pull about him. Like somehow Dean was the center of the universe and everything else just unwittingly fell into his orbit lest they be burned up in a desperate act of rebellion. And that was Castiel. A lonely planet desperately clinging to the notion of choice and free will, knowing full well he didn’t have much of either no matter which way he spun.

Damned if he did anything about it, damned if he didn’t. 

Staring up at the ceiling, tracing the edges of the old, faded water stain in the plaster, Castiel thought about bruises and how physical hurt was fleeting. Dean’s bruise would fade too and his knuckles would heal, but that didn’t matter. Knowing Dean didn’t really matter. There was someone to blame. Whether Dean trusted Castiel enough to share that information was irrelevant really. The idea that someone could look into a face as pure and unfiltered as Dean’s and impose their darkness onto that light was close to blasphemy as far as he was concerned. And then he wondered if his words had anything to do with Dean being hurt. The mere possibility made his heart weigh heavy.

Castiel decided then, before he finally fell asleep, that whatever darkness managed to seep itself into Dean’s life wasn’t going to be from him. 

Not anymore.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Sorry it's been a minute since I updated this, I was working on a Halloween fluff and this Chapter required a little research that my brain really couldn't handle for whatever reason lol. But this one is a little longer so I hope that makes up for the wait! It's now hit over the 100 page mark in google docs though so this is a feat for me! And if I'm being honest with ya'll, I can't wait for these idiots to bone already.
> 
> xo

On Tuesday, when Dean arrived to class, he sat in his now usual spot in the front row, but if Castiel were pressed to describe his general demeanor in one word he would have to say Dean was sulking. Apparently lost in a funk of which not even Charlie seemed able to pull him out. 

While setting up his slideshow, Castiel overheard Dean irritably explain to Charlie he was “just tired” when she prompted him for the third time, but otherwise he kept to himself. To think himself to be the cause of this seemed a bit excessive, Castiel wouldn’t allow himself that amount of self-importance, but he had to remind himself that, aside from Dean’s current occupations, he knew next to nothing about him other than the fact he had a younger brother, and he seemed oddly passionate about cartoons. 

The bruise painting the side of his face was now concealed better than it had been at the restaurant last night, but Castiel knew it was there all the same. What he didn't know was why it affected him at all, but he could no longer deny that it did. When those somber green eyes flitted back to lock on Castiel, he cleared his throat, remembering himself. He reminded himself he was actually excited about the lecture he planned for today.

“Good Afternoon,” he greeted softly with a small grin. Requesting the student closest to the door dim the lights, Castiel booted up his presentation onto the projection screen. 

Gesturing to the first slide with his clicker, he spoke again, louder, “As you might have guessed by my screen-saver hiccup, and more importantly, the Michelangelo exhibit you should have all seen during our museum trip last week…” he wordlessly scolded whoever might not have gone with a quick finger wag, “This week’s lectures will be dedicated to Michelangelo Buonarroti, but today in particular, I want to discuss with you the effect David had on Renaissance sculpture.”

He pulled up the next slide with a quick press of his thumb and let the students absorb the image before beginning to speak. It was Donatello’s rendition of David, cast entirely in bronze. One hand hefted on his hip, while he placed a triumphant, sandalled foot upon the hulking, bearded head of Goliath. It wasn’t without its flamboyant charms, of course. The long, sweeping feather of Goliath’s helmet inching its way up David’s bare thigh. Notedly, this David was just a boy, never attempted to be depicted as strong or virile. This David won his fight against the giant through the grace of God and God alone. Sans, perhaps, the long sword at his side.

Secondly came Bernini’s rendition of David. A marble testament to the fluidity of motion. David mid-throw in his assault against Goliath. An artistic feat, simply for defying the convention of its predecessors. He gave them a brief reminder of the Ecstasy of St. Teresa in case it was already forgotten, but he continued quickly with his slides. He was moving out of order, but he didn’t care. 

What he really wanted to discuss was Michelangelo’s _David_. The posterboy of the Renaissance. The iconic symbol of virility and youthful beauty. No doubt, the most alluring depiction of David. At least, in Castiel’s opinion. Contrapposto carved in marble, begging the eyes to dance along the subtle curvature of the defined musculature. _David_ was also set apart from conventions, defying many a statue before it. It rejected conformity. This David hadn’t yet slayed his beast. This David wasn’t mid-battle. No, Michelangelo decided to depict this David in the liminal space existing between the weight of his choices and before the consequences of his actions, yet there was no uncertainty present in him. Only fight with very little room for flight. Taught muscle and determination cresting his features. The ever-present vigilance of a soldier ready for a fight.

Castiel waited for the student’s pens to stop scribbling before asking, “Questions?”

Giving a cursory glance around the darkened lecture hall, Castiel waited for some raised hands. Absently, Castiel turned his attention to the front row as he watched Dean half-heartedly scribble down his own notes. It wouldn’t get to him though, he wouldn’t let it. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a small hand held high belonging to a girl he still didn’t know the name of. He mentally scolded himself before motioning for her to speak.

“It’s more of a, um, general question…” she squeaked from the middle row, errant students turning their head to look at her while she spoke. She sounded preemptively embarrassed, though Castiel didn’t understand why.

“That’s quite alright, in order to learn you have to ask. There are no stupid questions here,” he assured her with a comforting smile.

She seemed to relax enough to formulate her thoughts at least. “I was just curious as to why most of these artists depicted everyone naked all the time?” 

It was dark, but Castiel would place bets the poor girl was blushing. This was clearly Greek to her, and Castiel scolded himself again for the clumsy mental pun.

“That is an excellent question,” surmised Castiel, as he meandered back over to lean on the podium. “I’m sure you’re not alone in your curiosity.”

Taking a moment to formulate the best answer he could give on short notice, he carded his fingers through his hair and exhaled before he said, “It wasn’t always so. During the Middle Ages, only those that were cast to Hell for their sins were depicted as naked, the Saints were always clothed, as the belief then was that nudity was a sin. Stemming mainly from the story of Creation, when Eve plucked the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, no doubt. Eventually thoughts shifted, as they are so apt to do. Many artists, especially during the Renaissance mind you, made works to depict scenes from the Bible, either by commission from the church or state government, or out of simple preference. I know it may seem counterintuitive to depict biblical imagery in such a way if you’re unfamiliar with either the work or the context, but during this time many believed the physical human form to be an extension of Christ and of God. To bare the flesh of God’s creation as it were. It also depends on the scene. Pietas almost never depict anyone other than Jesus baring their flesh, but the same idea applies. Does that make sense?” He squinted into the dark to see a barely discernible nod from the middle row. 

“Of course, then you have the Ancient Greeks and, well… They’re a whole different story.” Castiel chuckled. “I trouble to find an incident involving Ancient Greece where modesty was a primary concern,” he mused. “That isn’t to say the Roman Catholic Church was a stranger to modesty, however. During the Renaissance, many a Pope had ordered statues within the walls of the Vatican be covered with fig leaves at best and at worst destroyed.” 

Turning his attention to his laptop for a moment, he opened one of his slideshows he had arranged for a different lecture this week, as it now became more relevant given the slight veer in discussion. He pulled up a few slides of Michelangelo’s frescoes from the Sistine Chapel. “We will discuss this in better detail later this week, but as most of you probably are aware, Michelangelo painted the ceilings of the Sistine Chapel between 1508-1512. They’re located within the Vatican and while working to completion, Michelangelo was told to outright remove any and all genitalia from his work by order of the Pope’s right hand man, Biago da Cesena.” Donning a slight smirk, Castiel inquired, “Would you like to know Michelangelo’s response to the Vatican?” 

He didn’t care if they wanted to know, he was going to tell them anyway. 

Clicking on another slide, a detail from The Last Judgment, Castiel pointed out one Biago da Cesena among the sinners, sporting a ridiculous pair of donkey ears and in the rather precarious position of losing his genitalia to a serpent. A proverbial ‘fuck you’ to the Vatican, and only after Michelangelo’s death did work begin to censor his paintings. Castiel loved this story even if he was alone in that sentiment.

^^^

When it came to the end of the lecture, Castiel was puttering around the podium, hoping to get a moment alone to apologize to Dean. 

“And don't forget about your fast approaching due date!” Castiel reminded as his students started slipping out the door. “I expect written masterpieces!”

Charlie scurried off, leaving Dean to listlessly gather his things, tossing them carelessly into his backpack. In doing so, he managed to drop one of his course folders, causing a flurry of papers to scatter all over the floor and under the tables in the process. On some sort of natural instinct, Castiel started forward to help Dean collect them off the floor, grabbing a few that crash-landed closest to the podium. Castiel straightened them out in his hands, what looked like Algebra coursework, and he hesitantly stepped forward to hand them back to Dean. Though, in some unforeseen turn of events, one of the other students kneeled down to help as well. He seemed to be hanging back to speak to Dean just like Castiel.

Aaron… Whatever his last name was. All Castiel knew was that he was a Ceramics major, not a very good one at that, who routinely made it a habit of skulking behind the bushes near the basement exit after dark to get high. 

And maybe Castiel was watching them, and maybe Castiel had no right to this either, but it seemed like this Aaron person was attempting to flirt with Dean right in front of Castiel’s face. 

When Aaron handed over a few of his papers, Dean let out a shy laugh at whatever the hell he said, despite his overall brooding behavior for the past hour and that small burst of light simultaneously buoyed Castiel while stirring something sour inside himself. 

Castiel wasn’t immune to jealousy, but usually when it reared its ugly head, he knew why it was charging after him in the first place. Now he was just left tumbling through the dark with this beast sitting on his chest. Dean gave Castiel a quick glance, just because he noticed he was still standing at the front of the room watching, before the corner of his mouth curled at something else Aaron said. 

Castiel doubted Aaron was that funny. 

He cleared his throat, approaching cautiously, interrupting their awkward, flirty banter. “Sorry to interrupt, I just wanted to return these,” he explained, offering the few sheets back to Dean. Dean took them, hastily returning his attention to Aaron, but he didn’t say ‘thank you’. Castiel wasn’t really expecting one, all things considered. He returned to his podium and busied himself with packing away his own belongings, pretending to mind his own business and definitely not trying to eavesdrop, but he couldn’t help it. 

Aaron was fumbling his way through a rather pathetic offer to take Dean across the green to grab coffee from the cafeteria. Dean seemed to hesitate at Aaron’s offer, turning it over in his mind as he heaved the heavy strap of his bag higher on his shoulder, until he gave a breathy, “Sure, okay, why not?”

Aaron smiled. 

Dean returned it.

And Castiel returned to his corner office in the basement, resolutely not jealous whatsoever.

^^^

On Thursday, Castiel was running late. His Figure Drawing course had run longer than anticipated due to the nude model running late earlier in the day, and in order to allow everyone the proper amount of drawing time, they’d agreed to stay ten minutes later to accommodate for it. Unfortunately, that meant that Castiel was now ten minutes late to his Art History course, but sometimes sacrifices must be made. 

When he walked through the door before the 15 minute mark, the students groaned, probably hoping they’d get to skip class in his absence.

“Sorry I’m late, everyone,” said Castiel, as he hurriedly attempted to set up his laptop on the podium. “My other course ran long, but don’t worry, I won’t make you all stay late to compensate for my misjudgment,” he joked. 

He was a bit frazzled and he had charcoal smears on the front of his button down, having forgotten to wear a smock, but it would have to do. Pulling open the slideshow about the Sistine Chapel, he was now thankful they’d introduced this the other day because it meant he might be able to finish this lecture with the remaining time. He requested everyone’s attention to the projector screen and once he finally set his line of sight on the auditorium and began to give his lecture it hit him like a punch to the gut. 

Dean was sitting next to Aaron. Or rather, Aaron was sitting next to Dean, but the point was still the same. 

Castiel and Dean locked eyes for only a brief second before Castiel ignored him and carried on, but somehow that second communicated everything that it needed to. All traces of annoyance from before seemingly vanished and the only thing left in its place was the look of sly satisfaction spreading across Dean’s face. 

The smug little shit was doing it on purpose.

^^^

Aaron had brought Dean down to the kiln room to try to dazzle him with his poor attempts at sculpture. Castiel would know, he teaches the subject. There was artistic expression and then there was Aaron. Castiel rendered him on the latter half of the sliding scale. He surmised he must not even know what he was doing to make things that poorly. Either that, or ‘intentionally bad’ was just his style. Somehow, Castiel doubted it.

Dean let out an impressed whistle, by the sounds of it.

Castiel scoffed. He could hear them down the hall in the Ceramics studio through the crack in his door. He couldn’t close it because then any student hoping to speak with him during office hours would be shit out of luck. Maybe he wasn’t closing it because he wanted to listen, but he pushed that thought from his mind and resolved to do more work while ignoring the soft sounds of tentative flirting echoing down the hall. 

Eventually the sounds dissipated as Castiel heard the groan and click of the basement emergency exit locking back into place. With that, he sighed with what he convinced himself was relief.

Grading coursework was never as entertaining as Castiel had once imagined it would be. He listlessly flipped through a few of the sketches from his Figure Drawing course, muttering under his breath about how none of them seemed to be capturing the essence of the model. Call him strange, but Castiel much preferred there to be a visceral energy infused into a piece of work than to have it be at all true to life. Maybe that made him a poor choice for a course dedicated solely to drawing from life, but fuck, some of these sketches were really lacking. 

They’d done much better on the chiaroscuro assignment, he thought to himself as he slurped the last drop of chamomile tea from his mug. It was a cheesy one someone gave him at an office Christmas party once. Secret Santa. The Mona Lisa with a scribbled beard, or something. Castiel had no doubt in his mind it was from Balthazar. It was also his second cup of tea and he couldn’t hold it anymore. He’d held it simply because the custodian had barred off the basement bathroom for cleaning, but they had to have been done by now.

Hurrying down the hall, Castiel entered the bathroom a few meters around the corner from his office. It smelled like freshly cleansed ammonia and lemons. It was unpleasant, though what was more, the bathroom wasn’t empty and he always preferred to go alone. He recognized the back of his head, shortly-cropped hair facing the wall. Faded, blue denim clinging to the curve in his legs as one hand rested against the wall. There were only two urinals in the basement so he was forced to use the urinal next to him. 

"Mr. Winchester," he acknowledged with a curt nod, resolutely staring at the chipped blue tile in front of him as he pulled himself out of his pants.

"Professor Novak," he drawled, accentuating both words. Dean shook himself dry with a hitch in his step and zipped himself back up. 

Much to Castiel’s dismay, Dean didn’t walk away and it was making it that much more difficult to urinate. Dean angled his body, resting his side against the wall next to the urinal, eyes dead-set on Castiel. They were bloodshot and from this proximity Castiel couldn’t miss the faint smell of marijuana staining Dean’s clothing. He couldn't judge though, given the condition he'd been in when they’d met.

"I really enjoyed your lecture today," started Dean, thumbing the strap of his bag over his shoulder.

"Did you?” Based on what Castiel had seen all week, that wasn’t true. He was either moping or flirting, but who was he to question it. “I'm glad to hear that." A slow trickle began to flow into the urinal.

"Yeah, I did have one question though..." When Castiel chanced a brief glance at Dean he appeared pensive, if not troubled.

"Of course," Castiel urged, "You can ask me anything." He leaned his head back and let out a deep sigh he'd been holding in once his bladder began to feel relief. 

"Was just curious why ol' Mikey always made the dicks so small. He got a fetish or somethin'?" Dean’s mouth twisted trying to abstain from a laugh, but a giggle escaped his lips anyway.

Castiel cast a furrowed glance to Dean as he shook himself off. Dean was still watching him, though his eyes had markedly slid down to appraise Castiel's loose grip around his dick, sizing him up. 

Castiel scoffed. "I’m sorry, I wouldn't know."

Castiel did know; it was the convention of the time, an attempt to desexualize their nudity in the presence of God, a continued tradition taken from the Greeks. It was his job to know those kind of inane details, but he wasn't going to entertain Dean's attempt at a perceived insult. He also knew he was above average and he knew Dean already knew that as well.

Lowering his voice conspiratirially, he asked, "Do you think Professor Roche has a thing for small dicks too?" If Castiel didn't know better he’d have said Dean's green eyes were sparkling with jealousy now. 

Ignoring the jab, Castiel tucked himself away and turned toward the sink to wash his hands. The rusted faucet squeaked and groaned as the tepid water poured over his fingers. "Could you do me a favor, Mr. Winchester?"

Dean faltered, but looked like he was trying to puzzle out Castiel’s reaction. "Depends," he replied, dumbly.

Cas pressed on, regardless. "We both know I'm the one that grades your coursework," he stated. When Dean gave a slight nod, he continued. "Please don't pretend to be so stupid, when we both know it's not true." Turning to retrieve some paper towels from the dispenser, he noticed Dean's jaw was ticking. "Are we finished here, or do you have another question?"

The corner of Dean's lip curled again as he let out a soft snort. "How do you suppose it would look talkin’ to one of your students alone in the bathroom?"

Castiel tossed his crumpled paper towels in the trash and straightened his flipped tie in the mirror. He shot Deans reflection a wry look over his shoulder through the mirror. "I know what you're trying to do. It won't work." He was trying to make him angry and it was already working.

Dean lazily thumped his head against the wall and laughed. "What I'm trying to do? You don't know the first thing about me."

"I don't need to." Castiel finally turned to face him again. 

Dean was watching him through drooping eyelids. Amusement clear on his face. "I know you, though,” he said, pointing a finger, “Your type. You're all the same."

"You know me? Enlighten me then," Cas mocked as Dean had asked him to do last week. It hadn’t gone over so well then and it wasn’t now either.

"You're all spoon-fed, trust-fund, know-it-alls living the life daddy built for you and other people don't matter to you, they just get in the way. You think of people like things instead of like people,” he clumsily accused. Dean slid off the wall and plunked his heavy boots against the tile, planting himself squarely in front of Castiel, but Castiel held his ground.

“Is that so?” Castiel asked, wanting to deny it, but in all good conscious he knew he couldn’t. Not all of it anyway. “You must have me all figured out then, don’t you?” 

Dean gave a lazy nod. “I do.”

Castiel chuckled. “I might not know you very well, but you know even less about me. You’re intoxicated. I think it would be wise not to make assumptions about each other anymore.” 

“Not assumptions,” Dean ascertained, “Charlie n’ me. We googled you. Just curious,” he said, raising his hands in a surrendering way at Castiel’s bemused face. “Your family. Sure do make a lot of donations to the university, Professor.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes, peering at Dean through slits. Everything Castiel had, he worked for to achieve. It wasn’t what he wanted to be doing, but it was close enough. It was a necessity. And he wasn’t going to have anyone try to undermine his hard work just because of his family of all people. If Dean was angling to strike a nerve, he struck gold. 

“So, you do think I have money, then? Is that it? Because I can assure you, I live well within my means, and I told you exactly this last week. My family has nothing to do with me, nor I them.”

“Jesus, for a smart dude, you sure are dense. I don’t know how many times I gotta tell you I don’t want your friggin’ money ‘fore you get it.” Dean let out an exasperated laugh and scrubbed his hands over his face, up into his spiky hair, the action accidentally smudging the makeup on his cheek. “See, that’s the thing with you people. You think your problems are the only ones that matter. You think you're special, but I've seen a hundred 'you's at the club just in the last month alone. You're not special, you never were."

Castiel wasn’t sure who Dean was trying to convince because Castiel had never once truly believed himself to be special. Wished it, maybe. A black sheep, probably. But in his family, that was never considered a good thing. 

Dean scoffed. "What, you gonna hit me?" He asked, stepping closer. A challenge sparked in his eyes as he raised his chin and leveled Cas with a glare. 

"Do it," he dared.

The sickly colored mottle near Dean's temple surged Castiel back to the present. Castiel unclenched the fist at his side he hadn't even known he’d clenched and swallowed dryly. "I- I would never lay a hand on you, Dean,” he attempted, silently cursing himself. 

Dean snorted humorlessly. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

He searched Dean’s face for a moment, trying hard to avoid the heat in Dean’s glare and the fullness of his lips, before mumbling out, “I'm sorry, I have to be getting back to my work." Because it wouldn't be the first time. He'd already touched him twice without permission. Castiel still couldn't figure out that ‘No Touching’ rule apparently.

Heading for the door, he pulled it open, nodding a curt greeting to Aaron entering behind him covered in clay sediments and leaving Dean to stew in his own inebriated juices. 

^^^

On Castiel’s commute home, he found himself haplessly stewing on their interaction as well, mindlessly watching the lights of the city blur past the bus window. 

Maybe Castiel wasn’t so different to any of those men as he had so desperately wanted to believe if that was the way Dean was perceiving him. And at what point had Dean assumed Castiel was special? 

Special. What a novel concept.

He lingered on the notion as he trudged up the cement steps to his apartment. Dean had called him dense, and for what? 

He unlocked his door and went through the same nightly routine of feeding his cat and then himself. He showered, roughly dragging fingers through tangled, wet hair, and attempted to masturbate, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to tonight, he realized with a sigh. Not bothering with pajamas either, he crawled into bed and stared at that same browned water stain in the corner of the room.

Recounting the course of events that lead him to today, Castiel couldn’t help, but wonder if he’d always been on the wrong side of this thing. This palpable feeling he harbored for a young man he barely even knew. 

It struck him then, the answer to this needlessly elaborate riddle. 

His brain swiftly reminded him of the phone number he found in the pocket of his motorcycle jacket. Dean’s phone number. A neatly printed reminder. Castiel had flushed it, but now that he got to thinking, he thought that tissue could have held the answers to the universe for all he knew. 

The tissue. Dean had written down his phone number and slipped it into Castiel’s pocket the night he received the lapdance. He had refused Castiel’s money outright, and upon further inspection the single bills had been neatly folded and slid back into the other pocket. 

Dean was right, he really was dense. Dean didn’t want Castiel’s money. Dean had been saying it all along. He wanted Castiel. For whatever reason Castiel couldn’t understand. And what was more, Castiel wanted Dean in return. 

A part of him wished he could be like however Dean had seen him that night at the club. Whatever inspired Dean to believe he was different from every other customer sitting on his couch. Dean had thought he was special and Castiel had shown him exceedingly well how wrong he had been to ever believe that. 

But for all intents and purposes, Dean was still a threat. A threat to the career he had built up for himself and to his comfortability, however mundane. That had been Castiel’s primary instinct thus far: Locate the threat and eliminate it before anything bad could happen. Simple enough. But things were never so simple, as he was fastly becoming all too familiar.

He didn't sleep well that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art symbolism in this chapter is my favorite, just saying. It's only fitting that our own posterboy stirs a rebirth in our oblivious professor lol.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, Dean's back! 
> 
> Also another shout out to my beta just for putting up with me going on in-depth character analyses and meta rants every other day. I just really like symbolism, okay!?

Castiel _had_ been different. Dean was convinced. 

He saw it the first time he’d laid eyes on him at freshman orientation over the summer; a few weeks before the fall semester had started. 

Dean had taken a tour with his assigned group, the ‘Undeclared’ students, and they’d made a pit stop to explore the art studios. The overeager guide was in the middle of discussing the selling points of the university’s art department, as well as specifics about the Ceramics department, when Dean dipped off to take a piss. 

He’d turned the corner to find the bathroom they’d passed earlier and that was when he bumped into him, causing the tea wrapped in his hand to splash onto the front of his pristine, white shirt. He was leaning against the wall outside his office talking to Professor Roche and laughing at a joke Dean had missed, no doubt. Eyes crinkling in the corners and face lit up with a gummy grin. 

He was beautiful. So much so, Dean stopped in his tracks for a second. 

Dean hastily delivered an embarrassed apology, but if Castiel was annoyed he didn’t show it. He just warmly said, “Don’t be, it’s not your fault. I’m the one in the middle of the hallway,” while looking down at his shirt and then carried on with his conversation, hardly acknowledging Dean at all.

That kind of anticlimactic meet-cute shouldn’t warrant a personally signed love letter, but Dean was conditioned to expect blunt force trauma for every fuck up he’d ever caused. Sometimes even for the ones he hadn’t too. At the time,“It’s not your fault” seemed like a novel concept in comparison. 

So when Castiel appeared at the club not so long after, Dean started to get a little hopeful, despite Castiel not recognizing him. And when Castiel appeared on the faux-leather sofa in room 5, Dean started to believe in Fate a little bit. The fact he’d clearly been off his ass didn't seem to matter. 

As it turned out, he hadn't remembered Dean at all. Why would he? Dean wasn't impressive. Only because he was “the stripper” and nothing else. But the funny thing about Fate is that it hates to be meddled with and Dean should have known better when he signed up for Professor Novak’s Art History course.

_**Tuesday** _

“What can I get you?” Aaron had asked, pulling a chair out for Dean. 

It was a small table tucked into the corner of the cafeteria by the floor to ceiling window. The smell of roasted coffee beans pervaded while a boppy, pop song played over the speakers, giving that authentic coffee shop ambience despite the linoleum tiles and borderline-institutional seating surrounding them. 

Whatever the song was, Dean hated it. It reminded him of something from the club. He shrugged his bag off and set it on the floor by his feet. He didn't have much time before his shift at the Roadhouse, but Aaron seemed… nice enough, so he had said ‘okay’. It hadn't escaped his attention that Castiel had been watching either, but what did it matter? He wasn't interested. He was taken. Dean had reminded himself of that fact as he’d attempted to fall asleep the night before and again when he agreed to this, but it still felt good to know he was watching. That probably made him shitty, but what else was new?

“Uh, I'll take a small coffee, black,” requested Dean, shyly. He felt bad that Aaron was paying, but he reminded himself Aaron had been the one to offer on the walk over. “Thanks,” he tacked on as Aaron made his way over to stand in line, contented smirk on his face.

Dean sat idly with his phone, fidgeting with it in an attempt to look busy while he waited. He tapped his messages and chewed the inside of his cheek before selecting Charlie’s message thread. He felt guilty for snapping at her, but she'd been pulling on a seam that was threatening to tear already. That part of him wasn't meant for Charlie to know. Not ever if Dean got a say. Hesitantly, he typed out a simple “sorry for being a dick” and sent it out before he could further elaborate or dig himself a deeper hole. 

Aaron came back before he got a response. He nodded to the phone Dean was slipping back into his pocket. “Am I that bad already?” He chuckled, placing Dean's small, black coffee down in front of him as he took a sip from his own. It smelled like a pumpkin spice latte or something gross like that.

Dean shook his head and let out a light, fake laugh. “No, sorry, Charlie,” he said, bringing his own coffee to his lips. It was too hot, so he blew the steam from it a few times. “I kinda snapped at her in class earlier, just wanted to apologize.”

Aaron set his coffee down and nodded, slipping into the seat across from Dean. “Yeah, you seemed like you were in a bad mood. I almost wasn't going to ask, but I thought I'd seize the moment.” He smiled, crossing his arms and resting them on the table. “Plus, I might have pulled a middle school move and asked her to talk to you for me. I figured it wouldn't come as a real surprise. I am surprised you said ‘sure’ though, to be honest.” 

He picked up his paper straw wrapper and awkwardly fiddled with it in one hand. “Sorry,” he huffed as Dean watched his twitching fingers.

“Why were you surprised?” Dean asked, ignoring the apology, while his knee nervously bounced under the table. 

Aaron gave him a shy smile. “Well, have you seen you?”

Dean could feel heat travelling to his face on instinct, but it wasn’t a surprising response. Everyone had seen Dean. Most had seen too much actually. 

“I'm not exactly winning any awards here,” added Aaron, light-heartedly.

“Nah, man, I'm not like that. That shit doesn't matter to me, but you're fine. I mean you're not ugly,” Dean stammered out awkwardly, taking another sip of his coffee to occupy his mouth. He glanced out the window as other students passed by on the sidewalk. 

For all intents and purposes, Aaron wasn’t ugly. He had short brown hair, too short to really grip. He was shorter than Dean, but by more than one inch. His skin was pale, not tanned. The hair on his face had grown out, not left in a state of perpetual stubble. Dark brown eyes, most notably not blue. But Charlie wasn’t wrong, he really did like to stare.

Aaron scratched at his beard and chuckled. “I guess I'm alright,” he admitted. “Could be worse.” There was a pause as Dean sipped on his black coffee, but Aaron didn't let it linger for long. “So, are you seeing anyone?”

Bringing his attention back to Aaron, Dean snorted. “You aren’t beatin’ around the bush, are you?” Aaron just smiled in response. Dean shook his head, amused. “No, can’t say that I am.” 

And he couldn’t because he wasn’t. Maybe Aaron should have asked who he’d like to be seeing, but then they wouldn’t have ended up there at all because the answer wasn’t ‘Aaron’.

“Why’s that? You could probably pick whoever you wanted.”

He had. He just picked the wrong one.

Dean let out a small, shy laugh again, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh, not sure. Not all that interested, I guess. Not much time to date either.”

Aaron mulled it over, then said, “That’s a shame. How come?”

The conversation was bordering on a topic Dean didn’t want to discuss. He could feel his hackles rising involuntarily, but pushed them down enough to answer. “Work and school mostly,” he went with, “Don’t get a whole lotta free time.”

“Where do you work?”

Just then, Dean’s phone vibrated in his side pocket. “Sorry,” he said, as he reached in to fish out his phone. It was a text from Charlie absolving him of his sins, complete with multiple heart emojis. His guard melted away for a brief moment, until he remembered Aaron asked a question. One he didn’t want to answer. Checking the time on his phone, he let out an overly dramatic groan.

Dean reached down for his bag and flung it back over his shoulder. “I actually have to get goin’, my shift is starting in twenty minutes. If I haul ass fast enough I can probably make it on time.”

“Oh, no, it’s totally cool. Don’t think I won’t ask again, though.”

“What, where I work?” Dean laughed when Aaron nodded. “Nowhere good, I can tell you that much.”

“Is that supposed to make you less interesting?” Aaron asked with a slight blush and a teasing smirk.

Dean snorted with a shrug. That was a toss up depending who you asked, Dean figured. “Well, I gotta get goin’,” he said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.

“Hey, actually, before you go, I was wondering if you’d ever want to come take a look at my stuff sometime. No pressure or anything, just might be cool. And if you’re down, I got a spot by the basement exit to aid in my ‘higher education’,” he said, wagging his eyebrows.

Dean was torn, but he said okay anyway. “Thursday. My day off,” he said, clumsily walking backwards towards the exit.

“Sweet. I’ll see you in class tomorrow,” Aaron said, raising his coffee.

“Yeah, uh, see ya tomorrow, man.” 

_**Present** _

Dean’s eyes were red. 

It was the first thing he noticed as he stepped up to rest his palms on the cold edge of the bathroom sink. Leaning into himself in the mirror, he pulled his lids down to see the blood vessels snaking their way out. A combination from the weed and the anger that wanted to escape through his constipated tear ducts. A muted laugh escaped his lips instead as he looked back to Aaron. 

The poor, clueless son of a bitch. 

Aaron stood in the middle of the bathroom, hands coated in dried, caked clay, looking between the door and Dean. He was high too, but it didn’t seem to be affecting him much from what Dean could tell.

“You good, man?” Aaron asked, approaching the sink next to him to rinse off his hands with a couple pumps to the soap dispenser. He slathered the pink liquid over his palms, but he was watching Dean gently swaying as he pulled and stretched the skin on his face. Trying to make it feel something. “Sorry, we hit the strong stuff. Shoulda asked first, I guess.”

“M’ fine,” mumbled Dean, leaning his back against the outerwall of the bathroom stall. 

He could feel the cold pressing through the back of his shirt; it was grounding him while his mind was swimming through a handful of prominent emotions. Anger, being at the top of the list. It felt bitter and familiar. Jealousy was in there somewhere too. Part of him believed if he unloaded that burden onto Castiel, he wouldn’t feel them anymore. And he did make him mad, and who knows if he was jealous, but Dean was still slumped against the wall drowning in his own head anyway.

Drying his hands, Aaron turned back to Dean and asked, “Hey, you want to get out of here?”

“And go where?” Dean asked in return, skeptical.

“I don’t know.” Aaron shrugged, but his cloying, oblivious smile said everything. “I mean, I have a dorm. We could work on the Art History paper or something.”

The paper. Of course.

Dean knew it was a ruse, a weakly veiled offer to get in his pants, but that didn’t seem to matter right now. A slow smile split across his face driving a spike through his own thoughts. Securing his bag over his shoulder, the offer was laying on the table, the only thing Dean had to say was ‘okay’, so he did. 

“Lead the way.”

^^^

They’d made topical jokes on the walk over to his dorm, but even high Dean noticed Aaron’s falsely confident bravado was crumbling.

When they made it inside, Dean wasn’t high enough not to notice Aaron’s dorm room was kind of a shit hole. He had dirty clothes strewn over the back of his desk chair and socks and underwear trailing up to the bed where Dean and Aaron were sitting, backs against the brick wall. It smelled like ass. Aaron had his Art History textbook propped in his lap, but that was all it was. A prop. The only light in the room was coming from a tacky lava lamp on the desk. Dean was entranced when the blob on the bottom finally floated to the top.

Aaron was barely flipping through the pages while they half-heartedly attempted to discuss a few of the sculptures from the Sistine Chapel they'd reviewed in class earlier. Dean hadn't missed the spark of indignation that flashed behind Castiel’s eyes when he'd seen the two of them together; it fanned Dean’s own flames. That look was spurning him on even now. 

“So, do you like Art History?” Aaron asked awkwardly on a laugh after a while. Clearly not the type to ask virtual strangers back to his dorm on a whim, but by now, Dean was used to working for unconfident men and virtual strangers alike, so he didn’t even blink at this point. 

And Dean really did feel bad for stringing Aaron along. Like leading a horse to water, just to drown him in it. He didn’t deserve that and he didn’t deserve to be used as an emotional buffer either. Dean wasn’t so far gone he didn’t realize his own selfish course of actions. But Dean felt worse about everything else at the moment, so he pushed it back down and reached across the bed. 

Anything to make him stop the small talk.

Taking hold of the textbook sitting idly in Aaron’s lap, Dean lazily tossed it over the edge of the mattress with a thump to lie amongst the rest of his mess. Aaron looked nervous. While Dean made burning eye contact with him and crawled up the small bed, seating himself in Aaron’s lap, the clicking in Aaron’s throat was audible as he gulped. Reaching his fingers back to clutch at the cotton fabric between his shoulders, Dean stripped his own shirt off over his head in one swift movement, discarding it on the floor too. He felt hazy, but he didn’t need to be clear for this. Didn’t want to be.

“Sorry, I don’t usually--” Aaron attempted to explain as he settled back against his pillow. 

He didn’t usually do this. He wasn’t usually like this. This was unusual for him. Dean read that loud and clear a few days ago, he didn’t need it explained now.

Dean pressed a quieting finger to Aaron’s lips. Leaning over him, Dean whispered a soft “I know” hot in his ear, it felt like the words were melting out of his mouth, before surging forward and locking their lips together. It was rough and brash, but Dean needed it to be. Dean didn’t usually do this either. Not without getting paid anyway. He wanted to make it hurt just like everything else.

He was moving over him like a hurricane, but it wasn’t long before Aaron caught up. He reached back to tug his own shirt off, tossing it aside haphazardly. Dean’s knees were pressing hard into the mattress on either side of him while he pressed a fervent grind between their clothed groins. Rough denim rubbing together. The burning friction was painful, but he didn’t stop.

“Bite me,” he demanded with a shuddering groan while Aaron was sucking a wet mark in the hollow of his throat.

While Aaron’s teeth worked over his throat, his hands travelled over Dean’s available skin; up his arms, around to his back, pressing desperate claw marks into the meat of his shoulders and trying to pull Dean closer. However, Dean’s hands remained glued, tangling themselves in the sheets. The soles of his dirty boots gripped the edge of the bed too, almost fixing him in place. Telling him to stay put, despite every fibre screaming to get out of there. Telling him to stop dragging people into this hole he kept digging for himself. 

Like a hurricane, Dean left casualties everywhere he went.

It was working, though. The repetitive push and grind of their cocks rubbing together was siphoning off the darkness. Aaron was fighting not to be vocal, but Dean didn’t care if he made noises or not. He was a stand in. A sexual punching bag. 

Dean swallowed one of his moans with another smothering kiss as Aaron gripped one hand on Dean’s rocking hips, the other trailing a line between the heat of their bare stomachs. He was reaching, attempting to fiddle with the buckle of Dean’s belt. And Dean let him, thinking how relieving it might feel to have a warm hand finally wrapped around his aching cock. But he wasn’t prepared to see red the instant that warm hand gripped tight around his balls.

A red room. Searing pain.

The nausea that followed was overwhelming. 

“Stop!”

Aaron stilled immediately, while Dean heaved himself backwards on his heels, causing Aaron to recoil his hand like he’d been burned. 

People kept doing that.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--” Aaron gaped, clearly experiencing some sort of emotional whiplash while trying to sit himself up, but Dean was already pushing off the edge of the mattress, fumbling around to turn his shirt right side out.

“Are you okay?”

People kept asking him that too.

Tugging his shirt back on over his head, Dean went over to the door to collect his bag and his denim jacket. 

Was he okay? Probably not.

“Yeah, sorry,” Dean breathed, shrugging his jacket back on, “Just changed my mind.” Slinging his bag over his shoulders, Dean hazarded a weary glance at Aaron who was reaching for his own shirt where he sat on the edge of his bed, confusion and hurt evident on his face.

“Did I do something wrong?” He sounded embarrassed. 

Yes.

“I haven’t really been with another guy before,” he admitted, scratching his neck.

Dean’s mouth parted, but he wasn’t sure how to comfort him when he felt like he was the one that needed comforting first. “No, man. It’s fine,” he said reaching for the door knob. “Just wasn’t feelin’ it tonight. Maybe another time when I’m not off my ass?” He tried for a weak smile, but it fell flat.

Dean didn’t plan on doing this again. Aaron seemed to rebound a little with the hypothetical floatation device.

“Yeah, okay,” he breathed with a nod, choosing to believe him. “I’ll, uh, I’ll see you in class.” 

With that Dean was out the door.

^^^

The air was cold tonight. It was biting at his skin on the walk home, threatening to creep under his jacket, so he tugged it tighter around himself and kept moving. His boots felt heavy still and there was the distinct smell of crisp autumn air rolling in off the water, despite it not being autumn for a few more days, that was working to sober him up faster than he wanted.

To add insult to injury, it’d only been just over a month ago, he realized, trudging his way along the sidewalk. What a mess he had made in such a short amount of time. And for what? A crush? What a fucking stupid hill to die on. 

It wasn’t supposed to go down like this, he convinced himself. He didn’t have ulterior motives. He didn’t have a plan at all, really. He wasn’t thinking with his brain. There was just a natural draw towards his professor that Dean didn’t want to fight. He was sick of fighting everything all the time. It wasn’t as if Castiel had done anything to warrant Dean’s affection, but he had it whether he wanted it or not. 

Dean was passing the Roadhouse now. He paused outside the window. The smell of greasy frying oil permeated the air as he scuffed his boots on the ground. He was hungry after everything. He was still high, after all. But he talked himself out of going inside. He thought of Ellen and her no nonsense policies and he shook his head despite no one asking him anything. He wanted to go in, though. Despite his coworkers being near strangers, he felt more at home here than he did anywhere else. Maybe even ever. 

Home was a novel concept too. The only thing close to it he had was Sam and Sam was however many miles away right now. The distance didn’t matter, just that Dean wasn’t there to protect him, but Sam had told him to go. Come to think of it, so did his father, but they were for two entirely different reasons.

Half-way through his walk the haziness started getting annoying more than anything else. He didn’t want to be high anymore. Aaron hadn’t been lying about the strong stuff, that was for sure. It was still lingering around the edges by the time he rounded the corner on the club, but he didn’t want to climb the fire escape yet in case Benny was wondering where he was. He didn’t want more questions.

Crossing the crosswalk, Dean lowered himself down on one of the worn benches overlooking the dark water, seemingly entranced by the slow blinking lights across the shore playfully dancing across the surface. Absently, he calculated how easy it would be to just jump the rail, but he wasn't that far gone, so he laughed the notion away.

It wasn’t Dean’s first time getting high by any means. That was a usual routine he’d had in high school, behind the gym with his few miscreant friends. Biding time before he would inevitably end up having to go home and walk on eggshells again. They were easier to step on once he was comfortably numb to the pain. Because they did crack. They always did. And Dean had made it his sole mission to always be in the line of fire when it happened because it was better him than anyone else, he figured. A higher power having decided Dean must have deserved it, this kind of life, and who was he to argue with God? 

Now, he seemed to be placing himself there out of sheer habit. Rubbing salt in the wound for kicks. A wound he kept picking at in fear it would scab over. How could he heal when Sam was still in the trenches? How could he heal when he deserved it more?

Part of him wanted Castiel to hit him because then he would really be like everyone else. Pain was easier to understand than nothing at all. 

Pain was direct. He would have understood. He deserved it.

Extracting his phone from his pocket, Dean listlessly scrolled through his messages. He had an unread one waiting from Charlie. Something about how she was struggling with writing her paper. It continued on to ask about Aaron and Dean bit out another humorless laugh at the question. If Charlie had known he’d just exploited Aaron to make their Art History professor jealous, she probably wouldn’t be so hyped to be besties. He tapped on it and his thumb hesitated over the keys, but he didn’t type anything. He wouldn’t have to tell her he fucked it up by tomorrow when Aaron acted like Dean was a social pariah. But it was better this way, he thought. Aaron now knew Dean was fucked up and he would know to steer clear of him at the very least.

Out of instinct, his thumb tapped out of the messages and hovered over the call button. He wanted comfort right about now and had no where to get it, so he hit call anyway because it would have to do, even if he couldn't tell him anything.

“Dean?” Sam answered, voice cracking with sleep and puberty.

“Hey, Sammy,” said Dean, attempting to feign happiness. “It can’t be that late, why you sleepin’ already?”

Sam groaned out a yawn on the other end of the line. “Ugh, sorry,” he said, “I was working on my History paper, but I fell asleep doing research. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“He go out again last night?” Dean asked, voice instantly filling with concern despite trying to dampen it.

“Yeah, nothing happened, Dean, don’t worry,” he said. Always trying to sooth Dean. Sometimes Dean wondered who was supposed to be the big brother in this whole fucked up situation.

Dean hummed into the mouthpiece. “What’s your paper on, dork?”

“The Civil War.”

Dean snorted. That was appropriate. “Nice,” he said. “Y’know, I got a paper to work on too. Haven’t started. Don’t really know what to do with it, honestly, but I kinda wish you were here so I could force you to write it.” He laughed.

“What’s yours on?”

“Art History, I guess. I haven’t really picked the topic yet. They let you choose your own torture in college. Kinda like a ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’ book, but more depressing.”

“Well, your shit out of luck, Dean. I don’t know enough about Art History to write a paper on it. Make it about American serial killers or something so I can help you out.”

“Hey, language! And yeah, sorry, that’s still a weird fuckin’ hobby, Sam.” Dean could practically feel Sam rolling his eyes so he laughed again.

“Dean, can I ask you a question?” Sam sounded hesitant to ask.

Dean paused for a moment, considering, before he said, “Shoot.”

Sam audibly inhaled and let it out with a sigh. “Are you high?”

“What makes you say that?” Dean asked, dumbly, despite knowing he was laughing for no reason.

“Because I can always tell. You’re not as good at hiding it as you seem to think,” said Sam, knowingly. “You usually only do it when something is wrong though, so you can tell me if there is you know. Something wrong, I mean.”

Dean figured there was no point denying it, but he wasn’t about to open up to Sam. That wasn’t his role. Dean was the strong older brother, Sam was the younger brother that needed to be protected. Dean was already mentally kicking himself that he was a fuck up enough times that Sam could pinpoint it over a phone connection.

He sighed. “I’m fine, Sammy. Just had a long week.” It wasn’t really a lie either, but it was more like a long life.

“Okay,” Sam said after a few moments, “Well, I’m here if you want to talk about it sometime. I can help.”

Dean shook his head with a chuckle. “Yeah, y’know you’re not as dumb as you look sometimes. ‘M proud of you, kid. Just wish you’d get a haircut one of these days.”

“Whatever,” said Sam with a snort. “I miss you, Dean.”

“Yeah, miss you too, Sammy.”

Sam hesitated again, so Dean waited on the line. “Spit it out.”

Sam sighed. “Can I visit you sometime? In the city? I looked up the train lines the other day and I know I could figure them out myself.”

Dean knew he could too. Hell, Sam could probably design a better train line himself in under an hour. But Dean worked most nights and had his classes during the day. Not to mention homework. And he sure as shit didn’t want Sam to know he lived over a strip club, let alone worked at the very same one. All Sam knew was that he went to class and he washed dishes. He knew Dean lived with Benny. Sam knew Benny from before. Dean and Benny had been friends in high school, despite Benny being a few years older, but Sam never liked Benny then and he doubted Sam would like strip club bartender Benny any better now. How else would Dean have even known about the stripping gig and place to stay in the first place?

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Sammy.” sighed Dean. “Besides, I said I’d try to make it down for Thanksgiving, ‘member? You that bored without me?” Dean asked, but he knew the answer. Dean was kind of treading water without Sam too.

Sam huffed over the line. “Thanksgiving,” he said. “Right.”

“Sorry, man. I’ll try to call more, how’s that?”

“Yeah, I guess I can try to call more too.” Sam yawned again, before adding, “Anyway, I should probably get back to my History paper.”

“Yeah, you should! Shit ain’t gonna write itself,” Dean said with a laugh.

“Maybe you should take your own advice.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Sam was usually right, even if Dean didn’t want to acknowledge it most of the time. “Night, Sammy.”

“Night, Dean.”

Sliding the phone off his cold-reddened cheek, Dean hit ‘end’ and slipped it back into the pocket of his jeans. He really wished he could see Sam. Even just for a sliver of normalcy. As lame as it sounded to say it out loud, Sam was probably Dean’s best friend. Not that he would ever tell him that.

Dean didn’t want to get up, though his ass cheeks were growing cold now too. He took one good, long stare out at the water again before shaking his head and heaving a sigh at the thought of his current place of residence. 

Finally, Dean picked himself back up off the bench, crossing the street and rounding the building. He headed down the side alley where the dumpsters were, looking in both directions per usual, as he lowered the fire escape for the umpteenth time. He really needed a fucking key because this was just getting embarrassing at this point, he thought, but part of him didn’t want a key though, because then this place felt like a more permanent part of him.

Once he crawled through the chipped bathroom window and landed soundly on the tile, Dean decided he might as well take a shower. Wash any and all trace of Aaron and the memory of the customer at the club from his skin once and for all. If only life were that easy, he mused, as he started the water. It came out in trickling spurts, but eventually flowed steady. It was lukewarm at best, but whatever. 

He tore his clothes off leaving them in a wrinkled pile on the floor before casting himself another appraising glance in the mirror. His eyes were less red, but he figured the blood must have travelled to the mark that had bloomed in the hollow of his throat. A flower born of broken capillaries and pain. Between his throat and his face, he may as well be growing a garden, he thought with an unamused huff.

Stepping into the shower, Dean took his time; sudsing up any crevice he could reach, really lathering it in there and scrubbing probably a little too roughly, but he avoided touching his junk if he could help it. Showering was usually his favorite part of the day. A chance to cleanse himself from all the bad shit eating at him and come out at the end of it whole again. Clean. He let out an exhale, resting his forehead against the humid wall of the shower with a heavy thud, just standing there for a while until the water ran cold. 

The rest of the apartment wasn’t any warmer. Dean slung a towel around his waist, gathering his clothes off the floor, but when he walked out of the bathroom none of the lights were on. Not even light seeping from the crack underneath Benny’s bedroom door.

So he was out, decided Dean. 

He turned, then he saw the note resting on the kitchen counter, illuminated by the window over the sink and covered with Benny’s illegible chicken scratch. Benny had gone to Andrea’s for the night. He did that sometimes, but Dean hated when he did. Mostly because he didn’t like being alone. Not that he would admit that to anyone. Just most of his life, he’d had Sammy. They were practically joined at the hip. Now he had nobody, except Benny and maybe Charlie. They both had better places to be most nights.

Dean let out another sigh, and tossed the note in the garbage. After everything he was just tired. A bone-deep tired. He wanted to sleep for a week, but Sam was right. His fucking paper wasn’t going to write itself.

After Dean dried off and put a fresh pair of underwear on, he found some questionable leftovers in the fridge and made them his dinner. It was Chinese. Probably. He ate it cold, as he usually did, just because he couldn’t be bothered. He grabbed the whiskey off the top of fridge and made his way back over to the couch, taking a couple swigs from the bottle and swishing it around his mouth to wash down that mystery flavor. 

Plopping himself down on the lumpy cushions, Dean set the bottle down on the coffee table and brought his laptop to his lap. With a groan, he opened the word document and the blinking cursor taunted him. 

Homework. 

This too seemed as trivial as small talk at work. He wasn’t home, not really. He didn’t have much of one, physical or otherwise. And all he did was work. Dean scoffed at the thought as he stared at the blank page in front of him. He didn’t want to think anymore tonight. It would make sense eventually, he convinced himself. 

It had to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 1,2, and 9 now have accompanying artwork. Ideally, I'm hoping to make art for each chapter. Xo


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorrysorrysorrysorry for the wait!

Dean knocked twice; knuckles hollowly meeting solid wood.

He felt strange standing in the dormitory hallway again, on the girl’s floor no less, considering he’d grown accustomed to climbing into Benny’s cramped bathroom window. It was as if he just presumed everyone else was doing that too instead of having the mundane sort of college experience most people hope to have, Dean included. No such luck. But he did promise Charlie they’d meet up to work on their Art History papers together and it was the least he could do for ignoring her last few texts on top of everything else, so he waited.

After a few more moments fiddling with the strap of his backpack and toeing the linoleum, Charlie opened the door with a beaming smile splitting her face. Her bright red hair was tied up in a messy bun and she was wearing an oversized Grumpy Cat t-shirt paired with Millenium Falcon pajama pants.

“Dean!” she squealed, throwing her arms over his shoulders and pulling him down into one of her suffocating embraces.

Dean chuckled at her unwavering enthusiasm. “I think I’m underdressed,” he joked, words practically being squeezed out of his chest. 

Releasing him from her death grip, Charlie batted him on the shoulder. “Don’t you make fun of me, Winchester! Friends aren’t supposed to judge.”

“Not judgin’, just sayin’,” he laughed it off, holding his hands up in surrender as he slipped past her into her dorm room. 

Charlie’s room was noticeably more sanitary than Aaron’s. No clothes on the floor and the bed was actually made. It also didn’t have the faint aroma of dirty underpants. All in all, it was nice. Very Charlie, considering the amount of geeky posters lining her half of the room.

“You know the drill! Make yourself comfortable,” said Charlie. It was practically a demand at this point.

Sliding the straps off his shoulders, Dean lowered his bag onto the fuzzy area rug by Charlie’s bed before lowering himself down on the edge of the mattress. This wasn’t actually his first time in Charlie’s dorm, but he rarely felt at home anywhere. This was probably as close as he was going to get, he figured, so he toed his boots off and set them by the end of the bed while Charlie settled herself in against the wall. Tugging her notebook and laptop back onto her lap, she breathed out a defeated sigh.

“I’m starting to think this assignment is some form of punishment, but I can’t figure out what we did to deserve it,” she said, flipping through her lined notebook pages. Charlie took organized notes. More organized than Dean, at least. She was the kind of person that brought different colored highlighters to class and that said all it needed to. 

This assignment was killing him softly.

For all intents and purposes, it wasn’t technically difficult. Pick one piece from the museum and one from the course material. Compare. Contrast. The whole nine. It was only a five page assignment, but he was new here and admittedly Dean knew very little about art aside from what he’d learned these past few weeks. The freedom was throwing him for a loop. Coming from high school where everything is regimented and pre-planned, the concept of being the one in control was a new one. The idea of choice was really nailing him over the head.

Dean groaned. “Ugh, I know,” was all he said, but he could think of a handful of things he should be punished for at this point in time, so it wasn’t totally off the mark. He’d be surprised if Professor Novak didn’t fail him on principle. What’s more, Dean wouldn’t even blame him. Only himself. “Have you picked your pieces yet?”

Charlie settled her notebook back onto her lap and dramatically turned her head to Dean, eyes wide. “Of course I have… Don’t tell me you haven’t even started.”

Dean winced and avoided direct eye contact, which told her everything she needed to know. Scratching over the back of his neck, he shrugged. “I mean I have like, a sentence? Maybe? Was kinda hopin’ it would just come to me or whatever, but it never did.”

“Dean! It’s due next week!”

“Yeah, thanks, I know!” He kind of hated the shrill tone of her voice that he’d known was coming, but he figured it would do him good to get a bit of a kick in the ass, even if that came in the form of a small red-head. “But, that’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Moral support?” He reached down and tugged his laptop out of his backpack and opened it, emphatically pressing the power button. “See! I’m workin’ on it!”

Charlie’s answering groan turned into a small smile. “You could always just try flashing Professor Novak your goods and not even worry about the paper,” she said, smothering a laugh with the palm of her hand.

“Oh, not this again,” griped Dean, rolling his eyes. Somehow, he doubted that would work given their history. Much of Dean’s goods weren’t exactly left to the imagination. “I don’t have a crush on our Art History professor, Charles.” He was trying to convince himself more than her because crush didn't seem like the right word. It was too juvenile to describe the weird dance they were doing around each other, but he couldn't think of a better word. “Besides, he’s taken.” Suppressing, the twinge of jealousy at the word, Dean tried to focus his attention on his laptop screen instead of his friend, but he could feel her staring.

“Taken, eh? And how do you know that?” She wiggled her eyebrows and stared him down, heavy with implication. 

Hazarding one side glance, he rolled his eyes again at the overly pleased expression on her face. “Yup. Taken. Professor Roche. I saw them together at work… At the Roadhouse,” he clarified. Not that she knew he had another job. “They were definitely on a date.”

Charlie practically flipped her laptop onto the bed. “Professor Roche!? You’re kidding! They couldn’t be any less alike if they tried!”

Dean let out one brief, bitter laugh and shrugged. “I know what I saw, Charles. They’re a thing.” Darling. Pressing his back against the bricks, he let his head fall back with a dull thud, watching the blinking cursor on the screen, and then glancing back to Charlie’s over-invested expression. She looked like she was about to shit rainbows or something. “Why are you so happy about it?”

“I dunno! I think it’s cute,” she said with a barely-contained smile. “Two guys falling in love over shitty burgers. I ship it.”

Dean subconsciously drew his lip up in distaste. “I mean I didn’t say they were fallin’ in love or anything,” he grumbled. “The dude ordered a friggin’ salad of all things.”

“Oh my god,” she droned, gripping one of her fuzzy accent pillows and whipping it at Dean’s perturbed face. “You’re so jealous, it’s gross,” she said while Dean sputtered.

Grabbing the pillow out of his lap, Dean threw it back in her face. “No, I’m not,” declared Dean, despite all evidence to the contrary.

Charlie rolled her eyes, propping the fuzzy pillow behind her head as she took her place back against the headboard. “If you say so, Dean.” A hint of a smirk played at the corner of her lips, but fortunately she let the case drop.

Being with Charlie was easy and it was already working to relieve some of the weight from his shoulders. They worked in relative silence, save for the music on low volume spilling out of Dean’s laptop speakers. Taylor Swift because it was something they both agreed upon, even if Dean didn't want to admit it. The only other sounds being the crinkle of notebook pages and the clacking of their keyboard keys. 

Charlie was writing her paper on Michelangelo’s sketch of Cleopatra they’d seen at the museum, though she was struggling to find a comparison piece. A simple portrait bust sketched of the figure Cleopatra looking over her shoulder while a serpent twisted its way around her neck, sinking its fangs into the flesh of her breast. It was a double-sided drawing. The completed version on the front, while a gnarled, monstrous version existed on the back, so Charlie claimed from her research. A true depiction of both the ‘sacred’ and ‘profane’. When Dean questioned why she’d chosen it, she simply replied, “Because of the boob, duh,” and Dean couldn’t really fault her.

What Dean was typing, he didn’t really know. He was halfheartedly stringing sentences together solely to get Charlie to quit giving him knowing glares over the top of her laptop. Gnawing on his lower lip, he’d thought back to the lectures they’d gotten on Michelangelo last week. About David. The vigilant boy ready to pick a fight. It seemed heavy-handed, but Dean knew Michelangelo was Castiel’s favorite. He’d said so. It seemed like the easy choice to choose one of his works. But David? That seemed almost too easy. Dean still had the subconscious desire to impress Professor Novak, regardless of whether or not he was taken. Maybe that was why this seemed harder than it needed to be, Dean thought as he paused to crack his knuckles.

Nudity. He hadn’t paid much attention to the question then, but he’d laughed to himself at Castiel’s answer. The sinners without their clothes being tossed to the depths of hell while the saints, donning their pristine robes, were welcomed to the gates of heaven, whole and pure. So, that was it then? Dean must have already been in hell if that were the case. And what did that make Castiel? A saint? 

Hardly.

He thought back further to before, remembering the museum bench. The heat between their thighs pressed close. It felt more intimate than the day Castiel had appeared on the sofa at the club. How that was possible through layers of denim, Dean didn’t know, but he’d gotten up anyway for that exact reason. And then he saw the drawing on the other side of the room. It felt like it was pulling him across the floor by magnets. Madonna and Child. The mother Mary and her infant son.

Closing his laptop altogether to give his strained eyes a break, Dean reached over to flick the bottom of Charlie’s outstretched bare foot. He wasn't giving up, he just wasn't trying either and there was a frozen yogurt cart set up outside the cafeteria still, of which he knew Charlie loved.

Charlie kicked her foot out still distractedly typing. “Quit it, Winchester! Shouldn't you be typing too?”

Dean pretended to mull the question over for a second. “Yeah, probably,” he said with a laugh. “But do I want to? Probably not.”

“Dean! It's a big percentage of your homework grade! You can't just not do it.”

“I never said I wouldn't do it, I just don't want to do it _right now_. Besides, are you really going to tell me you don't want to take a break for froyo? Don’t make me beg! I won't even say anything about your shirt.”

“What's wrong with my shirt?” Charlie asked, mock affronted.

“Nothing,” replied Dean, suppressing a laugh, “See?”

Charlie scowled, but she slowly closed her laptop anyway. “Fine,” she conceded. “But only because I love froyo more than you.”

Dean split into a Cheshire grin, patting her shin as he scooted to the edge of the bed. “Somehow I don't believe you, but I can't argue with that,” he said, leaning over to slip his feet back into his boots.

“Oh my god, Dean! Are you wearing a thong?”

Sure enough, he was wearing a thong. A black lace thong to be precise. But he was only wearing it to get used to the feeling since he had to wear them at work so much. Definitely not because he liked how it looked and definitely not because he liked being looked at in them.

Dean practically gave himself whiplash. “What? No!”

Charlie reached across the bed and tugged on the hem of his underwear rising above his jeans. She giggled at the sight. “Oh my god, you are!”

The heat traveled to his face faster than it probably ever had. He could try to deny it again, but that would be stupid, so instead he just gaped at her. Lips slapping together like a fish on dry land. “Okay! Maybe I am! So what?”

“It’s actually really cute. Do you think Dorothy would like one? Where did you get it?”

That wasn’t the route Dean was expecting to go down, but he took the out anyway and suddenly he was feeling even more grateful than he’d ever been to have Charlie as his friend.

They ate their frozen yogurt in the grass like nothing even happened. Dean piled his own with just about every unhealthy topping the guy had in the cart and he ate it obnoxiously despite all of Charlie’s disgusted faces. Or maybe just to spite her.

“God, boys are gross,” she muttered, bringing a demure spoonful to her lips.

Dean tossed his head back on a boisterous laugh as he laid with his shoulders propped up against his backpack, long legs crossed at the ankle. “More for me then,” he teased.

The sun was still spilling out warmth over their faces while they ate together. Dean soaked it in. He wasn't looking forward to the cold creeping in earlier and earlier, due in large part because he was forced to walk most places, but this was nice. He could stay like this for a long while and pretend his life was easy like this.

“Hey, so what ever happened with Aaron? Seemed like you guys hit it off, but now…” asked Charlie, taking a breather to come down from her brain freeze.

Dean sighed out of a vague sense of relief. At least Aaron hadn't been gossiping about his erratic, unstable behavior. He hadn't tried speaking to Dean either since, but Dean could still feel him staring at the back of his head during Art History.

Avoiding her eyes, Dean swallowed and kicked at the heel of his boot caked with dirt. He looked at her once and then changed his mind, choosing instead to watch a group of jocks walk by on the sidewalk. “Nothing happened,” he said after a minute, poking his frozen yogurt in his hand with his plastic spoon. “He’s alright. I dunno, I mean, we hooked up I guess, I just wasn't feelin’ it.” Chancing another glance up, he stuffed a couple gummy worms in his face to occupy himself.

“What! You hooked up!?”

“Jesus, Charles, why are you shouting?” Dean scanned the green, but fortunately no one paid them any mind. “It’s no big deal.”

“You barely even know each other! My previous assessment still stands: boys are still gross.”

Drawing his hand up to clutch at invisible pearls, Dean drawled, “Why, I do declare, Ms. Bradbury. Are you judgin’ me?” He fluttered his eyelashes, looking utterly scandalized.

She rolled her eyes. “Not judging, just saying,” she parroted around her frozen yogurt, jabbing her empty spoon at Dean. 

“Yeah, go ahead. Use my own words against me. I know I'm a slut.” 

Charlie laughed and pushed him in the shoulder. If only she knew he was being serious. She scraped the bottom of her cup with a sigh, whether it was because she was out of frozen yogurt or because the paper was still looming over their heads, Dean wasn't sure.

“Oh yeah!” Her eyes were alight with excitement. “Dorothy told me about a party off campus this weekend. Do you want to come with?”

“Sorry, can't. Have to work this weekend.”

“You work every weekend! Can't you get somebody to cover? The Roadhouse can't be _that_ busy!”

Right. The Roadhouse. Dean chuckled, shaking his head. “'Fraid not. Doesn't work like that. If I miss a shift, I get my ass handed to me.”

She was practically pouting. “Fine, but one of these days I'm going to get you to have fun. You're too young to be a workaholic.”

Dean would cut off his left foot not to have to worry about everyone else. To be able to drop everything and go get plastered with the rest of the people his age. He would never tell Sam though. Sam wasn't a burden, their dad was. 

“Can't make any promises,” he said with a shrug, face scrunched, eyes half-squinting against the sun.

^^^

**_Friday_ **

The night felt like it was dragging, but at least Crowley let him do a solo; he always made more when he did solos. Like paying for a front page ad, or taking a test drive. They always got the customers shelling out. He knew he did well tonight too. He was still riding on the coattails of his earlier adrenaline, but for now: he was waiting. Biding time until he got that tell-tale knock on the door.

There were a lot of rowdy patrons tonight too. Hard to see through the haze and lights, but he could tell there were a good handful of guys eyeing him over the course of the evening. Even went so far as the approach a few in the crowd. Audience participation never hurt anybody, Dean figured. One guy early on was looking like he wanted to eat Dean alive, and it took everything in him not to push him away the same way he had Aaron just for the fact if he stuck around he could end up dipping into his wallet later.

Right now, Dean was in the basement touching up the makeup on his face in front of the mirror. Smudged from working up a sweat on stage for a couple hours. For a while, Dean contemplated changing out of his mesh crop top now damp with perspiration, but ultimately decided ‘fuck it’ and left it on. Trying to pick a new outfit was more trouble than it was worth, especially when he was just going to be taking it off anyway.

Reaching into the front pocket of his bag, Dean pulled out his phone and unlocked the screen to scroll through his incoming messages.

One text from Sam about nothing in particular. He was eating salad apparently, which ew gross, but Dean was just glad he was eating at all. It meant his work here wasn't for nothing. He could put a little more effort in if it meant Sam could afford to get groceries.

Four texts from Charlie. The first of which was his name dragged out unnecessarily long. The second, an ‘I miss you’. The third demanded Dean leave work immediately and come hang out. And the fourth confirmed that Charlie was most definitely drunk by way of a shakily snapped photo of her and Dorothy clinging to each other with too-big grins.

Dean snorted and sent her a simple ‘have fun’ accompanied by a poop emoji. Would he have rathered to be drunk with his friend? Sure. But drinking didn't pay the bills. His good-for-nothing father taught him that much.

There was another text from Benny, despite the fact he was literally working upstairs right now. Dean opened it with a slight frown. “Goin 2 Andrea’s 2nite. Don't wait up.” Great. 

With a sigh, Dean returned the phone to the front pocket, zipping it up emphatically. He was probably the only college student that didn't look forward to having the place to himself, but it wasn't as if he could tell Benny not to see his girlfriend. He was happy for him, he really was, but a sliver of loneliness still prodded him every time he was alone. At the end of the day, he really just missed Sam.

Giving himself a once over, Dean felt satisfied with how he looked in the mirror. He would probably get tipped well depending how many private dances he had in the books by the end of the night. He just needed to remind himself to be present this time. Anything less could mean having another run-in with a fist and the bruising on the side of his face had just started fading to a sickly yellow. Faint enough to be covered by foundation, fortunately enough. Dean wasn't angling to refresh any of those old wounds any time soon, especially because he considered himself lucky that Crowley hadn't blamed him much for the incident.

Just as he’d been waiting for, there was a quick knock before the doorknob turned, Ash poking his head around the door.

“Just me,” Dean said preemptively, not taking his sights off his reflection while he reapplied the body oil over the muscles in his stomach and thighs.

“Deano! Just the man I was lookin’ for!” Ash propped himself against the door frame, absently watching Dean’s half-hearted ministrations. “Hey, I been thinkin’ ‘bout you lately, amigo.”

“Yeah? You thinkin’ about switchin’ teams?” Dean chuckled. “Cuz you know, you gotta sign up just like all the other schmucks.” He reached around to get the backs of his thighs.

“Damn, you caught me.” Ash gave him a wry look, but kept watching anyway. “You're too good for this place, y’know,” he said, but Dean didn't think he heard him right. Ash was just the burnout that read porn and maintained an illusion of safety. Dean wasn't expecting a heart-to-heart down here.

He laughed. “What, and you're not?” Dean had a hard time believing that most people weren’t above all this.

Ash shook his head. “Nah, man, I know I am. I got myself a degree all the way from MIT, thank you very much.”

“That so? The fuck you doin’ here then?”

Ash shrugged, but a smile crept up on his face. “Where else they gonna pay me to get high and look at porn?”

Dean pulled a face and tilted his head, pondering. He was coming up blank. “Touché.”

“I just hope you're smarter than you look. You stay here so long, it's like you can't ever leave.”

“You been listening to Hotel California out there again?” Dean closed the oil with a snap and tossed it into his bag. He zipped it and threw it under the table before turning back to face Ash.

“Look, I'm stoned off my ass, I just thought you should hear it. You got a long road ahead’a you, Deano. Don't blow it here. Shit like last week… it ain't worth it.”

Dean furrowed his brows. He didn’t want to be reminded, but he could tell Ash meant every word, so he swallowed, throat clicking, and gave a lazy nod. “Message received. Now you wanna tell me why you knocked?”

“Room 2. Not too ugly, but you better pace yourself. More where that came from.”

Dean didn't know how to feel about that. “Great,” he said as he reached for his robe hanging off the edge of the mirror. “Be out in a sec.” He stalled for a moment, shrugging into the satin material, as he gave himself one last final once over for the night. 

And the night dragged out longer still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you all will forgive me after the next chapter lol
> 
> I posted this at 3am and realize this sounds abundantly ominous lol. The next chapter isn't going to lead you to ruin I simply meant I hope it makes up for everything lol


	14. Chapter 14

The reservations had been set for 9pm. Castiel made quick work of getting dressed this time, leaving plenty of room for any train mishaps with enough left over to eat a light snack when all was said and done. He never knew with Balthazar; Castiel’s mind flitting ever so briefly back to that one night during the last week of summer that seemingly preoccupied most of his thoughts as of late. 

To Dean, among other unfavorable things. 

To the knuckle shaped bruise that had resided on the crest of his cheek and along the hinge of his jaw for these last couple weeks. To his own clenched fist. He’d meant what he said, he would never harm Dean, but just the idea was enough to make Castiel sick. Dean hadn’t even spoken to him since the last time in the bathroom, when his eyes were heavy despite being high. Which was understandable. It wasn’t as if Castiel were counting the days in his calendar or anything. 

He was Dean’s professor, he reminded himself for the millionth time this week, he was simply concerned for the well being of one of his student’s, he tried to convince himself. That didn’t seem to stop his subconscious from conjuring up yet even more dreams still. They were getting increasingly more creative, having more fuel stoking the fire, and sometimes, they weren’t even sexual. 

Somehow those ones troubled him more than the rest.

Inevitably, he’d phoned Balthazar at some point after the incident in the basement bathroom, still feeling shaken with himself, but censoring the more incriminating details, and seemingly within the same phone conversation Balthazar had made new reservations at The Heavenly Host for the following Friday in an effort to get Castiel laid and what he could tell was also an effort to stop mentioning Dean already. 

At the very least, it gave Castiel something to do besides dwell. 

He pushed it from his mind as he peeled back the skin of a slightly over-ripe banana and fed Michelangelo. The cat would probably kill him and eat the remains if he missed his scheduled dinner, he mused.

While he was checking himself out in the hallway mirror, attempting to tame his unruly hair, the buzzer sounded and he reached a hand over to press the door button. He looked good, he supposed. Not like himself, but maybe a version that would attract a stranger tonight or appease his friend at the very least. He broke out the hair gel for this, as well as a few dabs of high-end cologne, and he wasn’t wearing a tie so he had to have been scoring a few points already. Taking a page out of Balthazar’s book, he undid the first couple buttons of his navy blue shirt, the one that brought out his eyes or so he had heard, just before his friend knocked on the other side of his apartment door.

With a huff, Castiel smoothed out his shirt and reached for his motorcycle jacket hung on a hook by the door and then he opened it. Balthazar was grinning wide, excited eyes averting to size Castiel up. 

“Will wonders never cease! You look better than me, you bloody Casanova!” Shockingly he'd opted out of his usual revealing v-neck in favor of a modest black turtleneck.

Castiel rolled his eyes as he shrugged into the leather jacket. “You act as if that isn’t the standard.” Reaching for a thin scarf on the hook, he draped it around his neck. ‘An accent scarf’ Balthazar had called it at the store. Castiel didn’t see the point in it. “Anyway, who are you supposed to be, Steve Jobs or Mother Theresa?”

“Oh, he’s a comedian too!”

Emphatically checking his imaginary watch, Castiel joked, “Would you look at the time? This was nice, let’s not do it again.” He pretended to inch the door closed in Balthazar’s face, which was met with an abrupt laugh.

“No, sir! Not tonight!” Pushing the door back open, Balthazar snaked a hand around Castiel’s wrist and tugged him out into the hall. “I can see you’re wearing your good jeans tonight and that can only mean one thing…”

“That I own good jeans?”

“It means,” Balthazar started, grabbing Castiel by the shoulders, “that my dear friend Cassie is finally going to get fucked tonight! Or you know, whatever.” He gave a flippant hand gesture before Castiel was being pulled in for a tight embrace, feigning a sob and a sniffle into his shoulder, murmuring something akin to ‘they grow up so fast’.

Casting a deadpan stare toward an indeterminate point on the wall, Castiel waited for it to be over, arms pinned down by his side. “Okay,” he grumbled after a few seconds. “Okay, Balthazar. Get off me!”

Balthazar laughed. “You’re going to love it, Cassie!”

“Love what?” He asked, quickly locking the door behind them before they made their way downstairs.

“Sex, of course! Don’t worry, I doubt it’s changed much since the last time you gave it a go.” There was a slight spring in Balthazar’s step as he skipped down the steps just out of Castiel’s reach.

Castiel rolled his eyes again. “Fuck you,” he said, suppressing a smile. It hadn’t been that long, had it?

“Been there, done that,” said Balthazar. Stopping short, he half-turned in his tracks just outside the stoop. “Actually, I think I was the last time, was I not? If I remember, you were quite rusty then, so forgive me for feeling invested.”

Making to turn back around, Castiel grumbled, “I’m going home now. Goodnight, Balthazar.”

Balthazar let out a sharp laugh and gripped onto the back of his jacket. “No, we’re going to have fun tonight, I promise. Just you wait!”

^^^

The first floor served as a restaurant until 11pm though they hardly ate. The second floor acted as a lounge complete with a full bar and white leather booths lining the walls. Not quite a club, Castiel decided, as the music was far too quiet for that and the atmosphere relaxed, but it was loud enough that he could barely hear himself think regardless of its classification. A weird electronic melody that bounced around the room like an erratic, pulsing heartbeat. 

Everything was verging on entirely too sterile, which Castiel appreciated, but it stood out enough for him to notice. Glittering white floor tiles. White walls. Floor to ceiling glass. Aesthetically industrial pipes running across the ceiling and down the walls. The bar top wasn’t even sticky. 

Castiel was sat on a white leather stool at the bar, idly swirling the remnants of his drink inside the pristine glass while he waited for Balthazar to inevitably strike out again. He’d already struck out twice so far and if Castiel didn’t know any better, he might say that Balthazar was deliberately approaching people he knew he wouldn’t have a shot with. Whether it was to be a better wingman to Castiel, or for an altogether more unsavory reason, he couldn’t decide. He wasn’t going to leave here with Balthazar no matter how many drinks either of them had; not like that at least. Castiel was on the dregs of number two, Balthazar already had three. He was always one step ahead.

Almost absently, Castiel noted that he was still hungry. They served elegant appetizers here, the kind that aimed to look more like they were waiting to be photographed than actually eaten, but they were hardly enough to quell the deep rumble in his stomach. 

All things considered, he wasn’t having that much fun. 

Just as he was raising a hand to catch the bartender’s attention, someone slid into the seat next to him. The man’s cologne smelled entirely too strong. It was something Castiel could tell was expensive and this man clearly wanted everyone to know with the liberal way he must have dumped the bottle on himself before leaving the house. He was staring, a confident smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. Dark hair, blue eyes.

“Mick,” he said, offering out his hand. British accent.

Castiel stifled his breathing and gave the man a polite nod as he shifted his drink to his other hand. They shook. His palm was warm and dry. The other man, Mick, smiled imploringly, until Castiel realized that was his cue to speak. “Oh, um, Castiel.”

“Well, hello, Castiel. What’ll you have?” he asked, chin tilting to Castiel’s near-empty glass.

Following his gaze, Castiel pondered for a moment, lips turning down in the corners. Balthazar had ordered this drink for him before he disappeared twenty minutes ago. “I- I don’t actually know what this is...” he offered, futilely. His cheeks were pink, but that could’ve been the drink.

Mick laughed at him, eyes crinkling. “How does a beer sound then?”

He knew Mick was hitting on him, and he knew he probably wasn’t interested, but what could a beer hurt anyway? “Sure, why not? A beer sounds good,” he said before tilting his head back to catch the rest of his drink. Planting the glass on the bar, he gave Mick a small smile in return.

The bartender came to retrieve their order. Two beers. Whatever was on tap. At least Mick seemed down-to-earth. Maybe he really did just spill his cologne. 

“You come here often, mate? I’ve never seen you here before,” Mick said. He was leaning into Castiel’s space, his elbows planted on the bar while he waited for the bartender to come back.

“First time, actually. Not for lack of trying,” Castiel mused with a chuckle. Balthazar never shut up about this place since it opened at the beginning of the year. He could see the appeal now that he was here; it was nice, if not a little too much everything. “It’s awfully… clean,” he added, for lack of a better word.

Mick squinted at him. He looked past Castiel to the rest of the room and considered it as his mouth slowly, but surely, twisted into an amused smile. “You know, you’re not wrong. I hadn’t noticed before.”

Castiel shrugged, mouth turning up in the corner. “I call it like I see it.” And he did, but that was only because his verbal filter was awful. He ran a hand through his hair and silently cursed himself for the habit, only imagining what his hair must look like now after all the time he’d spent fixing it in the mirror before he left. 

If it looked bad, Mick didn’t mention it.

The bartender came back with two very full glasses of beer, foam sloshing over the edge when he placed them on the bartop and as quickly as it had the bartender was there with a new rag wiping the counter off. 

Like he said, sterile. 

Mick took a sip off the top of his beer, foam sticking to the stubble on his top lip. Reaching for his own, Castiel snorted into his glass as the man tried to elegantly wipe his face on the back of his sleeve. “Hey, no laughing, alright?”

Castiel steeled his expression. “I would never.” He was feeling mildly drunk. It was easier to flirt like this, he supposed. None of his usual hangups cloistering his personality away.

They sat like that for a while, precariously leaning into the other’s space to speak over the music. Mick had decided for him that they deserved another round of beer and Castiel didn’t deny him. Castiel still couldn’t decide if he was interested in Mick or not, but he appreciated having the company while Balthazar was off gallivanting somewhere. They discussed mundane things like work and hobbies. Mick worked in finances and enjoyed things like going to library and playing chess. Castiel mentioned he was a professor at the local university whose hobbies included reading pretentious books and watching old Hollywood films. 

“A professor, eh? What is it that you teach, professor?” 

Mick’s voice lilted with exaggerated curiosity. The kind that made Castiel feel like he could star in a poorly scripted porno. There was a flirtatious glint in his eyes that Castiel found somewhat hard to ignore, if not only for the fact it all reminded him sorely of Dean. He’d definitely had that dream before.

Almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he wiped it. 

Present. He needed to stay in the present. 

“Um, Art History, actually,” Castiel managed to say around swallowing his beer. “Mostly Mediterranean sculpture. And as it turns out, an intro course to Figure Drawing as well, due to unforeseen circumstances.”

Mick hummed into his beer, mock consideration creasing his forehead for a moment. “Think you could teach me a thing or two about the male form, professor?”

Whether he wanted to or not, Castiel blushed and he knew it wasn’t the beer.

All things considered, Mick was a conventionally attractive man. Strong features, solid build, around Castiel’s height, couldn’t have been more than forty. There wasn’t anything inherently bad about him and were Castiel into the whole “love ‘em and leave ‘em” philosophy like Balthazar was, than Mick probably wouldn’t be such a bad choice, he decided. Provided they were able to wash the cologne off of him first. He could do this. He probably needed to at the very least.

Mick was leaning in to say something along the lines of “do you want to get out of here” against the side of Castiel’s face when there was suddenly a body pressing against Castiel’s back. Warm hands pressing themselves down and gripping onto Castiel’s shoulders. 

“And who might you be?” Balthazar asked, reaching over to pluck Castiel’s beer out of his hand. He took a drink while he waited for the answer, but Castiel could feel the jealousy pouring off him in nauseating waves. This wasn’t the first time this had happened. Balthazar was drunk too, given the inelegant cadence of his speech.

Just what Castiel needed. Two accents having some sort of pissing contest over him at the too-sterile bar on the rich side of town.

Mick faltered and his eyes flitted between Balthazar, Castiel, and then back to Balthazar’s hands laying claim to Castiel. “My mistake,” he said, and he sounded sincere, “I didn’t know you were taken.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, and shrugged Balthazar off. “I’m not,” Castiel assured him. “This is my friend, Balthazar.” He made sure to emphasize the word for everyone involved. “Don’t mind him, he’s just an asshole.”

“He’s not wrong there.” Balthazar was obviously very drunk. His breath smelled like vodka when he reached to wrap his arms around Castiel’s neck. “But you wouldn’t have me any other way, would you, Cassie?” His voice was saccharine sweet, sickeningly so. 

The wet smack of a kiss planted itself against Castiel’s cheek before he stood, effectively getting free of Balthazar’s hold once more, but Mick didn’t look like he was wanting to get involved in whatever the fuck this was.

“Sorry,” he said, “It was nice to meet you, Castiel.” He gave a small wave and avoided Balthazar’s drunken glare before he scurried off to go find another body for the night.

Uselessly, Castiel felt livid. And not just because he thought he might actually get laid for once in his life, which was part of it, but for the sheer fact Balthazar was trying to sabotage him like he had any right to. His nostrils flared as he turned to round on Balthazar. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Castiel accused more than asked. A finger jabbing into the middle of his chest. 

Looking down to the finger embedding itself in his chest, Balthazar scoffed. “What do you mean?”

“Were you not the one that wanted to take me out to ‘get fucked’?” Finger quotes and mocking accent required.

Balthazar just gave a flippant hand gesture as he reached for Castiel’s beer again. “I didn’t like him,” was all Balthazar had the audacity to say.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly,” Castiel said, anger rising. “You ‘didn’t like him’?” Balthazar simply stared like he wasn’t impressed by Castiel’s sudden bout of anger. “I’m failing to see what your opinion’s got to do with any of this!”

“I’m your best friend, of course I get to have an opinion. This beer is awful by the way.” He kept drinking it anyway. “Why are you flipping, Cassie? There’s plenty of fish in the sea!”

“Outside,” he muttered, too quiet to really be heard above the music.

“What?”

“I want to talk to you.” Raising a hand, he pointed to the stairs. “Outside,” he repeated, voice stern.

Balthazar placed the now finished beer back on the bartop and raised his hands in surrender as he swiveled off the stool. “Okay, fine, we’ll talk outside.” It came out dismissive, which just stoked Castiel’s anger all the more. 

He followed Castiel down the stairs, silent the whole way, but as soon as the exit door swung open he was going off again. “I don’t see what the big deal is here, I was simply looking out for your best interests! I mean really, I was doing you a favor. You would have regretted it in the morning,” he rambled, but Castiel wasn’t interested in what Balthazar had to say. 

“Stop!” Castiel practically shouted over him. Balthazar looked like he’d been slapped across the face. “Stop talking! For once.” Breathing in through his nose, Castiel attempted to ground himself. To find the best way to say this so that it didn’t come out all wrong. 

After a moment, he found his footing. “What the fuck was that really about?” he asked, and he waited for the answer, holding Balthazar’s gaze steadily, Balthazar holding it right back almost defiantly, until he broke away without giving one. Castiel sighed. “Listen to me,” he said, “Because I need you to really understand this next part: I am not interested in you.” Balthazar’s face was pointedly blank, not allowing the hurt to bleed through, but he didn’t seem surprised and Castiel was grateful for that. “We tried, okay? I tried. And it did not work.”

“No,” corrected Balthazar, “You left.”

“I left? You’re the one that went to fucking France, Bal! And for what, because you couldn’t handle a simple rejection?”

“You barely even gave me a chance!”

“I didn’t need to! I know you better than you know yourself, Bal. It was never going to work, not when I don’t feel that way towards you. We are friends, colleagues, but I can’t be anything else for you, and I think you know that, despite whatever it is you keep trying to pull. My answer is never going to change. I don’t know how many times I can make myself clear to you!”

Balthazar scoffed. A bitter noise in the back of his throat as he leaned his head back against the wall. “Right, and I’m supposed to believe all of this has nothing to do with that snot-nosed brat you won’t stop incessantly whining about. Talking my ear off about someone that gave you a shitty handjob once upon a time. One I paid for, mind you!”

Castiel narrowed his eyes, nose still releasing measured, angry heaves of breath. “You’re jealous,” he stated, not leaving it open for interpretation, because that was what it was. What it all came down to. His erratic and cloying behavior for the last month. Since he came back from his sabbatical honestly. It was the only explanation. Castiel watched as he fumbled for the right words.

“Oh, is this what we’re doing now? In the middle of the goddamn street?” He asked, avoiding the statement. “No,” lied Balthazar, after what felt like an eternity. “I’m not jealous. I just think that your… obsession is bordering on unhealthy, Cas. And it would be a real shame if the only time you end up getting fucked is by your own hand just because you couldn’t keep it in your pants like the bloody rest of the world!” He spoke with barely abstained venom.

The muscles in Castiel’s jaw tensed. “This has nothing to do with Dean Winchester,” he gritted. Fists clenching. “I ended things with you long before I ever knew Dean and he is my student. His involvement in this matter is irrelevant.”

“Right, and he’s got nothing to do with the fact that you won’t give me the time of day.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

Balthazar threw his head back on a mocking laugh. “Somehow, I find that hard to believe, Cassie.”

“I don’t want to give you a second chance, Balthazar. That’s entirely on me.”

He still didn’t seem convinced and the longer they stood out here the less sure Castiel was becoming. But he needed to stick to his principles, because what else did he have? Biting the inside of his lip, Castiel fought a war with himself. Maybe it was best to just tell Balthazar the truth. What better time than now?

“Do you want to know why I can’t be with you, Balthazar? Why I don’t want to be with you?”

Balthazar inclined his head waiting for the enlightenment he just knew he was about to receive. “And why’s that?” There was a sense of genuine interest there too buried underneath the surface.

Castiel breathed deep, but he had to say it. He needed to say it. It’s been eating at him for the entirety of their roller coaster of a relationship, platonic or otherwise. 

“It’s because you’re infuriatingly self-absorbed!” He found himself almost shouting, the words bursting out of his chest. “You’re fucking selfish, Bal! Every conversation is about you, you, you, all the fucking time. God forbid I come to you with a problem because then it turns into an inconvenience for you! I doubt you could even name three things that I’ve told you about in the last week alone because you don’t stop talking long enough for me to get a word in edgewise! And for the love of God, you don’t even like going on walks! Who doesn’t like going for a fucking walk!?” It seemed inconsequential when he said it out loud, but it always bothered him and he started this thing, so he couldn’t just stop it there. “And as if that weren’t bad enough, you’re a fucking alcoholic and you don’t even know it! Or you do know it and you refuse to accept it which just makes it even worse. You can’t ever do anything without being fucking intoxicated! And I’m sorry, okay!? I’m fucking sorry that I don’t feel the same way about you because I really did try. And I’m sorry that you’re jealous of a fucking eighteen year old just because you have some weird hangup about being old! And I’m sorry you can’t just get the fuck over it already and be a better fucking friend because I’m really not worth the trouble! If Dean Winchester can see that without even knowing me, why the fuck can’t you!?”

There was probably an obvious answer lying hidden in plain sight, but Castiel’s mind was swirling with alcohol and low-blood sugar and the floodgate had been unleashed. This wasn’t what he wanted to say. This wasn’t about Dean, but his mind was taking it there anyway. Almost immediately, he was filled with insurmountable regret, a shaking hand coming up to scrub at the ever present stubble on his cheeks. His face was warm and he couldn’t look Balthazar in the eye. He didn’t want to see his friends face whether it be filled with hurt or anger or sadness or some immutable combination of the three. 

Castiel realized then the only person he was hurting right now was himself.

After what felt like ages, Balthazar coughed out a mirthless laugh, head hanging loosely on his neck against the wall. The pavement seemed fascinating by the way he was analyzing it. “Jesus, tell me how you really feel.” He kicked at some loose gravel before decisively pushing himself off the wall, stare still focused on the ground. “You want to know what’s funny, Cassie? Your life really isn’t half as difficult as you make it for yourself. You tell me I’m selfish, yet you’ve not once stopped to consider the fact that the only reason I feel compelled to intoxicate myself is because of you in the first place. It’s the only way I know how to be around you anymore. And as far as your premature mid-life crisis is concerned, maybe you wouldn’t find your life so painfully dull if you stopped fucking living inside your own head every once in a while.”

Castiel balked, but no sounds came out of his mouth. What could he even say? 

“You must honestly believe me to be a complete moron, don’t you? I do have a doctorate, you know. Of which I didn’t obtain by kissing your ass for you day in and day out. Christ, you act as though I’m utterly unaware of the notion that you keep me around solely to feed your own bruising ego! Keep poor, old Balthazar on reserve for those days when you’re feeling utter shit and need a confidence boost. Or even maybe for the night you might decide you’re just desperate enough to come crawling back. You know, I don’t blame you because I’ve been lying at your feet like a fucking doormat waiting for the same thing! But don’t worry, Cassie, because I’m going to make this all too easy for you just so you can’t make it harder.”

The words hung heavy in the air. Castiel faltered where he stood, ground slipping. “What do you mean?”

Eventually, when doubt began flooding into Castiel’s chest to drown him, Balthazar offered him a brief glance. Just one. “I mean, given the intensely negative way you so obviously feel towards me,” he said, voice scathing at the end, “I feel it would be best for all parties involved if we terminate our friendship. You wouldn’t want to give anyone the wrong idea, now would you? Maybe this way you can quit playing the martyr. It’s never suited you.” His voice was strong, sure. Calm even.

Balthazar had every reason to come to that conclusion, yet Castiel still felt like he was just punched in the stomach. He wanted to hit rewind and suck all those words back into himself because he didn’t mean it. Not really, he tried convincing himself again. 

Balthazar was his best friend and as pathetic as it would be to admit it out loud, Balthazar was his only friend. He needed him regardless of the way he was. So Castiel put up with the selfishness and the incessant monologuing. And he feigned interest in his gossip and snark. Sometimes his penchant for doing everything under the influence managed to make things more interesting. It certainly had the night he met Dean. Who needed to go on walks? That was what the fucking train was for! 

Castiel played the backtrack on a loop in his head, but he shook it out. Because as much as he hated to admit it and wanted to chock the whole thing up to being drunk, he meant every word of it. 

Drunk thoughts were true thoughts. That was another inebrious witticism taught to him once by Balthazar.

“You can’t--” He stopped himself. Balthazar could. He had every right to. “You don’t mean that,” Castiel said instead. His voice sounded weak now in comparison.

Balthazar shrugged. A weird, jerky thing, like he was holding himself back, while simultaneously pressing himself to turn away. Apparently, Balthazar meant what he said too. “Just remember, come Monday morning, you asked for this, alright? Because I don’t want any more pathetic updates about Winchester or your weird crush or how hopeless you are.” He got a few feet down the alley, Castiel’s eyes wide and blank and searching, willing him to turn around again because if he didn’t have Balthazar as his friend then what did he even really have? 

And Balthazar did stop. Just once. 

Without even turning, he said, “For the record, you’re a right bloody wanker, but... you’ve always been worth the trouble,” before he rounded the corner of the Heavenly Host.

Castiel was frozen to the spot. “Fuck,” he muttered, a barely audible gasp of breath he wasn’t even sure escaped his own lips were he not the only one in the alley. “Fuck!” he said louder, kicking a boot into the dumpster. It hurt, but he liked it so he kicked it again. How did he manage to fuck everything up for himself in every aspect of his life? It truly was a gift. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” 

He chanted it till he felt ragged and the cold was nipping through his shirt. Without warning the rising tide of bile hit the back of his throat and he retched beside the dumpster, stomach spewing spittle and air more than anything else, as he held the back of his hand tight to his lips. And just when he thought the night couldn’t have gone any more to shit, the cold press of a raindrop landing between his eyes brought him back to himself. 

This moment was a long time coming.

Another. And another.

“Fuck,” he said once more, lifting the back of his leather jacket in an attempt to shield himself from the slowly accumulating current of October rain.

Hurriedly, he made his way out to the sidewalk, peering both ways as he ran across the crosswalk. The cold rainwater was seeping into the denim of his jeans and leaving dark smudges on his blue shirt where it soaked in. He practically ran the few blocks to the train stop just for the fact he knew there was an overhang that would provide him with relief from above until the train came. That didn’t really account for the wind carrying the rain sideways though. 

The wait for the train took nine minutes and thirteen seconds. He counted each one because every cell in his body was aching to be anywhere else and pretend none of this ever happened. 

With a wet screech, the train came to stop just beside the platform and the second the doors folded open Castiel was throwing himself inside. It was nearly empty, sans an older woman with a plastic bag wrapped around her head to protect her curls and what looked like a businessman with an expensive briefcase over on the far side. Castiel took a seat closest to the door just because it was there.

It would take approximately twenty minutes to get home, given there weren’t any unforeseen problems on the line. There usually was, but Castiel prayed to some higher power to get him home in less.

Ten minutes in, Castiel got anxious. 

Sliding a hand into his pocket, skin damp and pocket damper, Castiel pulled out his phone. It wasn’t as if he were actually expecting to receive a text or a phone call from Balthazar. Knowing him, he was already over the entire situation and found someone in the bathroom to keep warm for the night. Castiel wouldn’t be the one to apologize. He had nothing to be sorry for. He meant what he said and he needed to stick to his convictions.

Twelve minutes in, Castiel felt sick to his stomach again.

He probably just ruined the only close to genuine friendship he’d ever had. Even if it wasn’t the healthiest relationship, Balthazar was always there, whether Castiel wanted him to be or not. Who the fuck did he expect to be there for him now? Michelangelo? The cat didn’t even have opposable thumbs!

Sixteen minutes and twenty four seconds in, Castiel got off the train. 

The doors folded open at a stop along the waterfront. He wasn’t even entirely sure what he was doing. It wasn’t his stop and he knew that, but the crushing isolation of returning home to his empty apartment was eating at him and his head was still swirling. 

Why go home when he didn’t want to be alone? The night wasn’t even over yet! 

This wasn’t the first time his feet lead him here either. He’d found himself standing here more than once over the last month, mind convinced it was simply a nice place to go for a walk. Lying to himself as if to say he didn’t want to go inside again. As if to say the whole thing was just one big coincidence instead of fate.

Why go home when he could be here instead?

Castiel watched the flickering, repetitive neon sign blinking at him through the rain. The green snake biting into the juicy, red apple continuously on a loop. A fluorescent smear painting the side of the brick wall next to the door. It was entrancing, like a beacon guiding him. Like a siren calling him to shore. 

Why go home when he could be with Dean?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0:)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sick again, my beta was high while reading this, and I'm in over my head here, but are you guys ready to toss this fruit salad or what?

_Maybe you wouldn’t find your life so painfully dull if you stopped fucking living inside your own head every once in a while._

The notion rang loud and clear inside his skull. A proverbial slap to the face. Almost akin to a wake up call, he would imagine, if he left himself any time to really think about what he was doing right now. 

Castiel’s feet were acting of their own accord again, dragging him over the faded crosswalk bisecting the street corner across from the water’s edge. The deafening honk of a car horn blared from somewhere behind him, but he didn’t pay it much mind either. He was acting with laser focus because, at this rate, allowing himself time to think didn’t make much sense. The time for thinking was long past gone and he was for all intents and purposes fighting the urge to shut down altogether.

Balthazar was right. Maybe it was high time he stopped living inside his own fucking head.

A wave of sound drowned him out of his fleeting thoughts as he opened the entrance to the club. He should have expected it given the first and only time he’d been here, but he wasn’t thinking of the first time, he was only thinking of the here and now and it left him with the low thumping of adrenaline coursing underneath his skin. He came here with a purpose, subconscious or not. He came here for a reason. He just wasn't sure what it was.

Halfheartedly, Castiel flashed his driver’s license to the woman seated on a stool by the door. She offered an impassive glance between the calm, reserved photo and Castiel’s agitated face before giving a nonchalant shrug and handing the license back to him. 

“Have a good night, Clarence,” she wished, tone bored.

“That’s not my name.” He fumbled with it, trying to get it back into the wallet slot, as he made his way further into the darkened club. 

Ignoring the way the oiled-up dancer on the stage moved in turn with the music bumping out of the loudspeakers, Castiel headed for the stairs in the back of the room. ‘The Snake Pit’ carved out into the pit of the Earth, marked solely by another poorly manufactured neon sign. Taking the stairs two at a time, he practically collided with what appeared to be an already satisfied customer hoping to make his way back up to the main room.

“Excuse me,” Castiel uttered, without much sincerity, as he pushed past him and headed for the end of the hall.

Castiel vaguely registered the man at the end of the hall as someone he’d seen before. He was seated in a low back chair with his feet kicked up on a stool, eyes poring over the contents of a fetishistic pornography magazine. 

Coming up to stand by the edge of the narrow podium, Castiel cleared his throat. The man lowered the edge of his magazine and peered at him over the top of the softened pages waiting for Castiel to speak. Clearly a well-loved edition. 

“You’re smaller than I remember,” Castiel found himself saying before he could do to stop it. 

The man’s brows twisted up. “That some sort of come on? Cuz it’s not workin’, amigo.”

“No, I- I’m sorry,” he stuttered.

“I mean, I don’t swing that way, but I also ain’t sayin’ no or anything. Don’t like to leave any leaf unturned, if you know what I mean.”

“Dean,” Castiel interrupted in a burst of breath, “I would like to speak with Dean.” He felt like he might explode at this rate. “Please,” he tacked on as an afterthought.

Almost immediately, the man’s guard went back up. He returned his eyes to his magazine. “Ain’t nobody here by that name,” he said, purposefully aloof. 

Right. Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine, Damien then. Is he available?”

Coolly placing the magazine down in his lap, the man regarded Castiel only for a moment. “Listen hot shot, that ain’t how this works. You don’t just get to fly on down here makin’ demands. You wanna talk to a dancer you gotta cough up the change. Them’s the rules,” he said, finger tapping on the face of the list of names to his left. 

Reaching into his pocket, Castiel retrieved his wallet again and fished around for a few creased twenties he’d intended to use at the Heavenly Host. All things considered, this seemed like an entirely more beneficial use of his hard earned money. He offered it up on the podium, slapping it down ever so gracefully. “I’d like to buy a dance then. The last slot, please.”

Drawing it up in his hands to count it, the man hummed and after finding it satisfactory, shoved the bills into the pocket of his tattered jeans. “Name?”

“What?”

“What name am I puttin’ down here?”

“Oh,” Castiel faltered, “Um, Clarence, I suppose.”

“Sure thing, _Clarence_ ,” he said pointedly as he scribbled the name down on the last line. He eyed Castiel again. “And y’know, don’t think I don’t remember you traipsing around here off your ass neither. What you on this time?” His eyes narrowed in scrutiny as if he were trying to peer into Castiel’s soul. 

It was unsettling to say the least, though based on his olfactory senses alone, Castiel would have to surmise this man was in no position to talk.

“Nothing,” he said dismissively, despite the fact he swayed a little getting off the train. “Not that it’s any of your concern.” He was nowhere close to as far gone as he’d been last time. 

The man clicked his tongue. “Now, see, it is my business. Cuz you tryin’ to talk to Damien is a personal issue for me.” His words sounded overly protective, though Castiel didn’t question it. Softer, he added, “He’s a good kid, so you better be on your best behavior tonight.”

“I have no intention otherwise.” 

Castiel felt as if the only way to erase the silent scrutiny bared on this man’s face were if he crossed his heart and hoped to die. Who knows, he might wish that tomorrow, he thought as he backed away and headed for the stairs.

^^^

If Castiel were to describe the atmosphere of the club now, he would have to categorize it as depressing. It reminded him nothing of the way he felt the first time all lit up with ethereal glow. It was cramped. It was dingy. It smelled like a depraved cocktail of sweat, overpriced drinks, and a myriad of bodily fluids intermingling with the scent of supremely artificial fruit flavors. It was altogether decidedly not sterile, but Dean was here. Castiel would swear on his mother’s grave he could feel his aura lurking in some deep, dark crevice and the only thing he had to do was simply find him. Somehow, finding Dean seemed like the answer to all his prayers.

He waited at the bar for lack of anything better to do with his time. He felt impatient and every minute that ticked by devastatingly slow was a minute closer to being disappointingly sober. Castiel didn’t want to be sober. Being sober meant he had to reflect on his actions, be that his poor choice of words to Balthazar or the very fact he was sat at the bar of this gay club again where the glasses had to be peeled off the counter. Neither of which were things he wanted to deal with, particularly not now. 

Lifting a hand, he beckoned the bartender over to his end of the bar. “What’s good here?” he asked, once the bartender reached him.

The bartender, whatever his name had been, gave a slight chuckle. “Honestly, nothin’,” he said with a southern twang as he slung a damp rag over his shoulder. What it was being used for was a mystery given the state of the bar.

Castiel sighed. “Alright, then just give me whatever is popular.”

“You got it.”

Some minutes passed and Castiel spent them absentmindedly gazing at the dancer that was on stage. He wasn’t exactly capturing Castiel’s interest. He was too muscular and his movements were too jerky and he had too much hair on his chest, but more than any of that he wasn’t Dean and Castiel hated himself a little more just for having the thought. For all he knew, Dean still hated him too. What was he even doing here?

The sound of a drink being set at the bar next to him snapped his attention back. It was in a martini glass. It was an unearthly color green. “What is this?” he asked, eyebrows furrowed.

“The most popular. Adam's Apple,” the bartender explained, scratching at his patchy looking scruff. He laughed at Castiel’s concerned expression. “Relax, it’s an apple martini, brother."

Castiel wasn’t sure if he should be grateful for the drink or not, but he said “thank you” anyway and hesitantly lifted the drink to his lips. It had a tiny straw, though he wasn’t sure if that was a pro or a con. It was also incredibly watered down.

After a few pulls, he decided it would have to suffice. In the time it took for him to finish the first, he ordered a second solely because he’d never been very good at self preservation.

Checking the time on the front of his phone screen, Castiel weighed his options. He hadn’t seen Dean dancing on the main stage. He hadn’t seen him intermingling with the drunken patrons around the dim club floor. He hadn’t seen Dean at all. But he placed yet another twenty on the sticky bartop and headed down to the basement anyway, taking a seat in one of the chairs lined up against the wall. 

The red glow of the exposed bulbs lining the brick wall offered out a warning, but Castiel didn’t want to take it this time. Some part of him desperately wanted to construct this whole night as having never happened. He was on a precipice, after all. A precarious place where he could either cling to the edge of reason and back away or he could fling himself face first over that very same edge without any promise of safety awaiting him at rock bottom. 

So, he sat and he waited. 

Rock bottom didn’t seem as dire as he’d always imagined it being. If he didn’t know better, he’d say he’d been wasting a lot of time worrying about something that never mattered in the long run. He was here again and as it turned out, no one gave a single fuck. Himself included.

^^^

After what felt like an indistinguishably long amount of time and yet another paying customer leaving satisfied, the man at the end of the hall alerted Castiel with a sharp whistle. 

“Yo, look alive, amigo,” he called. “You’re up!”

Castiel scrambled to his feet, feeling altogether far too overeager. He tampered the sudden urge to vomit down and he gathered his bearings as he made his way back to the end of the hall. This had to have been a mistake, such said the merry-go-round of doubt circling in his head on every odd-numbered minute, but if he was having doubts before, by now it was much too late to matter. 

“You remember the rules?”

“Yes,” Castiel nodded, “No touching. I remember.”

“Well, good, then you won’t mind hearin’ ‘em all a second time.” He listed things off, voice droning on and on, and all Castiel heard again was ‘no touching, no touching no touching’. He wasn’t here to touch anyway, he was here to talk. “You got that?” The man asked at the end of his tirade, eyebrows pointing towards the ceiling as he waited for an answer.

“Yes,” he answered and then he was all but shoved through the door to room number 5.

“Have fun,” the man reminded, “just not too much.” 

With that, he was left alone. 

The blood red light soaked the walls and the abundantly plush carpet underfoot. It still sunk under the weight of his boots as he crossed the floor. As before, the only option for seating was the faux leather sofa placed against the far wall, but Castiel hesitated, seemingly adrift in the middle of the floor. Should he sit? It seemed a bit presumptuous. Then again, standing squarely in the center of the carpet seemed a bit awkward at best.

After hasty deliberation, he decided to sit. 

Castiel soothed his sweating palms against the damp denim stuck to his thighs. He breathed a worn out sigh as the time ticked on and dragged the night that much further. Undoubtedly, he’d fucked up, and if nothing else, this right here was only fucking up more, but it felt right, and Castiel was only acting on impulse. He wasn’t going to change his mind now.

Hanging his head, he wove his fingers between the still-damp clumps of hair clinging together from his hair gel. “Where are you, where are you,” he murmured to himself, practically willing Dean to apparate in front of him. He rubbed soothing circles against his scalp to calm his frayed nerves, an almost hypnotizing gesture, and that’s when it happened.

The door on the other side of the room creaked open and clicked shut and the muted sound of bare feet padding across the carpet was the only sound Castiel could focus on.

He barely pulled his hands from his face before Dean was reaching for the ipod on the shelf and his long, lean body looked just as good as it always did, red lighting or not. A black mesh top revealing the smooth skin of his abdominals. Gold shorts clinging to his anatomy, leaving little to the imagination. 

“Got a preference?” he asked as he scrolled through the proffered music selections. His voice sounded tired and wholly uninterested, but the smoky timbre of it was music to Castiel’s ears.

“No,” Castiel said, but it was muffled into the meat of his palms.

His smile didn't reach his eyes. “Alright, dealer’s choice then.”

“Dean…” Castiel wasn’t sure what his own voice would sound like when he saw Dean, but he wasn’t expecting it to sound like that. Defeated. Desperate. Pathetic. He hated it.

Like a spooked animal, Dean looked up from the device, eyes wide, before he barked out a mirthless laugh. “Oh, you gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.” Dean stared at him, eyebrows raised as if in utter disbelief, and then after the briefest of moments he shook himself out of it and turned on his heels, angling to walk right back out the door.

“Dean, wait,” Castiel pleaded, getting to his feet, like his subconscious made the decision to go after him. “Please.”

Something in him must have sounded broken, because Dean did wait, but none of his apprehension bled out. If anything, it increased tenfold as he turned to face Castiel again. “Why the fuck are you here?” he asked with a voice as sharp as a razor.

Castiel didn’t have a good answer for him.

“You lookin’ to get your card punched or something,” he started, “This ain’t friggin’ Starbucks. The only free thing you’re gonna get here is the clap.”

Castiel gaped. “No.” He had waited what felt like all night, but he never really thought about what he wanted to say once he found him. And here he was, and Castiel was speechless. “No, that’s not why I’m here,” he said, “I wanted to speak with you.”

“Yeah? About what?” 

There were so many things he wanted to talk about with Dean that he didn’t know where to start, but he also knew he shouldn’t be talking to Dean about anything in actuality, and he sincerely doubted Dean wanted to hear anything that he had to say right now anyway. 

He should have presumed Dean would still be angry. The fight hadn’t left him. It was simmering just under the surface waiting to pounce. The ever-present vigilance of a soldier waiting for a fight. He reminded Castiel of David, though the only weapon Dean had in his arsenal here was his sexuality. That would make himself Goliath, Castiel noted idly. After tonight, he had little trouble believing he’d been the villain all along.

Castiel sighed. “I wanted to apologize.” He’d been meaning to for weeks.

“Apologize,” Dean parroted with a wry twist of his lips. He scoffed at the simple notion. “Don’t you think it’s a little late for that?”

Castiel shrugged his shoulder, relaying a casualness he hardly felt. “Perhaps. Though, one could argue it’s never too late to realize the error of your ways.”

“Oh, could ‘one’? How convenient for you.” Glowering at him from across the room, Dean angled himself to lean against the wooden frame of the door like he was giving himself an out, arms wrapping against his chest protectively. Castiel could respect that. He hadn’t left yet, afterall. He was still willing to listen. “Well, what the hell are you waiting for, an invitation? Let’s hear it.”

He wasn’t waiting so much as racking his brain for an appropriate place to begin. The past month alone seemed like one moment after another and it always came down to one thing: Castiel and his poor interpersonal skills. 

Castiel’s lips parted, searching, like a fish on dry land, until some form of an apology bubbled up and out of his chest. “I’m sorry, Dean.” 

“Wow. Color me impressed. You deserve an Oscar,” he intoned. Rubbing a palm over his face, Dean forced a laugh in feigned amusement as he shook his head. “Hell, you don’t even know what you’re apologizing for, do you?” 

“That’s not true.”

“Right. Care to share with the class?”

“For the things I said and didn’t say. For the things I did to hurt you these past few weeks. I’d say I never meant to, but that would be a lie.”

Dean’s face drew pinched, tension creasing the smooth skin between his eyebrows. “Let me get this straight, you knew you were being a big bag of dicks, but you did it anyway? You were acting like that.. On purpose?”

Sheepishly, Castiel felt heat rising in his face. “Yes.”

“Well, give the man a prize. He said somethin’ honest for once.” Dean laughed as he brought himself to his feet again. A hollow sound. Carefully, he spun around and rested a palm on the doorknob, but he didn’t turn it. He stood with his head down, forehead bumping against the wood once, contemplating. 

“Dean--”

“No, you know what?” he asked, spinning back around, scolding finger pointed like a gun. “I’ve had a really long fuckin’ night, _Clarence_ , so whatever it is you’re selling right now, I’m not really interested.”

“I’m not selling anything.” Castiel remembered clear as day what Dean could look like when he wasn’t angry, he dreamed of it often even, and he hated the fact the sour expression on Dean’s youthful face was set in place by the things he’d done. The silence between them hung heavy. The only sound the muted echo of the music pumping through the speakers on the floor above. After what must have been only a minute or two, Castiel said, “I don’t want to be angry with you anymore. I don’t want us to be angry with each other. Or jealous for that matter, because make no mistake, Dean, I was very jealous, but I realize now I brought it all upon myself.” 

“You think?” Dean sniffed. “So, you were jealous, huh?”

“I think you know that I was. Was that not your intention?”

He gave a lackadaisical shrug, but he didn’t seem ashamed of anything he’d done. Quite the contrary, actually. “And what about your boyfriend? Where’s he fit into this whole half-baked scheme of yours?” Sudden realization spread across Dean’s face. “Wait, you aren’t baked right now, are you?”

Biting the inside of his cheek, Castiel exhaled through his nose. “No. Dean, I am not in a relationship and I haven’t been for quite some time. I meant to clarify that to you at the restaurant, but you never allowed me the opportunity.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

Apparently, he’d been fooling Balthazar as well.

The music on the speakers upstairs switched over. This was the end of the line, so to speak, and Castiel had bought the last dance of the night. Technically all Castiel was doing right now was preventing Dean from going home, but he couldn’t let the night end here. Not on this note.

They were silent for another minute more. 

Just as Dean looked as though he were contemplating leaving again, Castiel found his voice. “Do you still want me, Dean?” It was shaky, quiet, but he needed to know. Afterall, that was what it all boiled down to, right?

Dean looked at Castiel as though he were the densest human to have ever walked the Earth. “Is that what you really came here to talk about? What the hell does that matter now?”

Right now, it was the only thing that seemed to matter. 

“Because I’m here,” he offered, “Because I’m giving you the choice.”

Dean’s face contorted with confusion. “Why?”

He considered it. It was a good question. “Because I’m tired of fighting it.”

“Fighting what?” He was pulling it out of him like teeth.

“You, mostly. My… desires.” Castiel hung his head and stared at the spot on the carpet between his boots, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I don’t know what I can say to you now because the way I’ve behaved is inexcusable, and I wouldn’t fault you in the slightest for not believing anything that I’ve said, but I’m here and I want to give you the choice. So if you want me, I want to give you whatever it is that you want.”

Lifting one wary foot, Dean inched closer. His face read unsure as he mulled the proposition over. The moment lasted an eternity. “And what if I said yes? You gonna pretend this never happened come Tuesday?”

There were a lot of things Castiel couldn’t change by weekends end. This was probably the only thing he didn’t want to forget about tonight. He shook his head. “No, I’m here of my own accord.” 

Castiel couldn’t forget Dean even if he wanted to. That much was painfully obvious.

Dean’s lips quirked as he considered it. “Right.” He gave an easy nod, seemingly gaining confidence, as he slowly stalked across the carpet, allowing his eyes to roam freely over Castiel for the first time tonight, inserting himself into Castiel’s space. “Prove it,” he challenged, hotly, in the dense air still left hanging between them. It was thick like the heat in summer, crackling with electricity.

“What?” Castiel asked, almost taken aback.

Before Castiel’s hazy brain could catch up, Dean’s slim frame was crowding him backwards against the sofa without even touching him. The cushion hit just below the knee as he unceremoniously fell back into it. 

“You heard me. You come in here guns blazin’, expecting me to just believe you? You gotta show me you’re not just talkin’ out your ass this time. So, prove it,” he said, practically egging him on, a fiery glint still burning in his eyes, “Or I’m walkin’ right back out that door.”

“How?”

“Touch me,” he dared.

Castiel gulped as his eyes became level with the golden outline of Dean’s burgeoning erection half-straining against the metallic spandex of his shorts. His eyes traced the hem of the material inching up between his thighs, the glossy sheen of the body oil coated thick over Dean’s abdomen, the faint shimmer of the body glitter as Dean’s muscles undulated with each measured breath. The way his nipples peeked through the eyelets of his mesh top. That familiar, sweet summer smell of strawberries. 

There was seemingly no shortage of places he wanted to touch Dean. 

Tentatively, he reached out his hands and gripped Dean’s hips, tugging them in towards him and prodding Dean to climb into the empty space in his lap. Surprisingly, Dean went willingly, placing his bent knees on either side of Castiel’s thighs.

When he dared to meet Dean’s eyes again, they were mocking him in their amusement. Dean was obviously still in control here, despite wanting Castiel to put in the work. Afterall, this was his arena. 

Inhaling a shuddering breath, Castiel laid a shaking hand to rest on the hot flesh of Dean’s bicep and he held it there, fingers idly brushing the freckled, glittering skin of his shoulder, while he waited for some imminent explosion that never came. He was touching Dean and the world didn’t end. It seemed almost too easy. The skin under his palms was practically burning.

“C’mon,” goaded Dean, “I know you can do better than that.” His words were teasing.

Castiel didn’t retract his hand. Instead, he pressed his fingers in and squeezed the muscle flexing under his palm. Dean had a sort of delicate strength about him, but his arms were firm, muscles sculpted. He let out a small gasp at the touch. The gentle noise sparked an ember low in his belly and the faint feeling of confidence crept back into his body. If this is what Dean wanted then this is what Dean was going to get.

Castiel tugged at Dean’s wrists in a silent demand and he listened, placing his hands to rest against the back of the sofa on either side of his head. Dean was watching him with careful calculations, but he seemed willing enough to entertain whatever game he was trying to play at Castiel’s expense. 

Two could play that game.

Laying his hands on Dean’s thighs, Castiel waited for any form of protest, and when he received none, he trailed his palms over the slick skin, flirting along the hem of Dean’s shorts with his fingers. Dean fought off another gasp in an attempt to keep a stoic exterior. He circled his thumbs over Dean’s hip bones. Perfectly defined ridges under metallic spandex. Castiel wished he could nip at them with his teeth, but that was rushing things and he wanted to tease back. He skimmed his palms up the length of Dean’s flanks and he could feel when Dean sucked in a breath at the touch. 

Maybe Dean was ticklish, he thought, as he raked his hands up, mesh bunching, while he grazed his thumbs over Dean’s already hardened nipples, skin raising with gooseflesh. He lifted a brow at Dean’s attempt at poorly concealed restraint, but he didn’t say anything about it, choosing instead to run both hands around lower over the small of his back. The sparse dusting of hair there tickled Castiel’s palms as he skirted over the hem, over the globes of Dean’s pert ass in his altogether too tight shorts.

Decidedly, Castiel wanted to see the look on Dean’s face when his fingers found their way under that top hem and he plunged his hands in to grasp at the warm flesh of Dean’s bare ass, manipulating Dean’s hips forward in his lap until their groins met. Fingers teasing over the cleft and spreading. The visual didn’t disappoint. Dean’s tongue darted out to wet his pink lips, his teeth grazing till the thin skin turned white. Castiel pulled him in again, pushing his own hips up to meet him with a sure thrust, and Dean strangled a grunt, his hands gripping tightly to the faux-leather sofa back. And again. 

Dean was fighting back even still, though his resolve appeared to be crumbling.

Slipping one of his palms around, he massaged it into the tensing muscle of Dean’s thigh, inching circles higher and higher. Dean’s cock was thicker now, almost full. Castiel didn’t deliberate for long. He dragged the heel of his palm over Dean’s length and he stroked him once under the golden spandex. Finally, a stifled groan managed to break free from Dean’s now parted lips, but his eyes pinched shut, face scrunched into something unreadable like a child waiting for some invisible monster to dissipate. Wrapping a hand around the back of Dean’s neck, Castiel tugged him in, capturing Dean’s lower lip in a slow, wet kiss and it broke whatever spell Dean was under. He responded in earnest, kissing back with the kind of unbridled energy only an eighteen year old can muster. 

In the midst of it, Castiel rubbed over Dean’s cock with purpose. Each grind of his palm pulling another whimper out of Dean’s throat whether he wanted to make the noise or not. The other hand embedding itself into the spiky, short crop of hair at the crown of Dean’s scalp, locking him in place against Castiel’s body. Their lips moved almost desperately over each other’s in a wet, hot slide, as Dean frantically rocked against Castiel’s tight grip; a far cry from every measured interaction they’d had leading up to now. 

Dean’s hands were still digging into the sofa, but the tension teeming out of his muscles melted away under Castiel’s hands. 

Another pained whimper caught in Dean’s throat as he pulled away from the kiss, mouth agape against Castiel’s, breath hot against his skin at the feeling. His breathing hitched against Castiel’s jaw.

“Dean, is this alright?” Castiel slowed his hand and tried to catch a glimpse of Dean’s buried face. “Tell me what you want.”

He gave an almost imperceptible nod, though his eyes were still pinched shut, and Castiel could barely hear him when he all but whispered, voice ragged against his ear, “I want you to fuck me.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, you guys wanted _fucking_ fucking. Ok, hang on.
> 
> Ironically, I started this to write smut. In july....

Dean was almost expecting it. 

The wave of nausea to wash over him at the contact. A steady thing that kept happening to him every time someone laid their dirty hands on him ‘by accident’ or simply because they felt they could. Because Dean wasn’t a person here. Not really. That theory had been proven time and again, a hundred times over. A few of which happened just tonight, barely within the hour. But he figured at least if Castiel was doing the touching he couldn’t pretend it never happened. So when he slipped his hand around under the hem of Dean’s tight shorts, he expected it. He braced himself, eyes pinched shut, for the inevitable wave he could feel threatening to pull him out to sea, adrift in his own sense of self-loathing.

But it never came.

And Castiel was kissing him with purpose, and touching him like he might actually be worthy of the attention somehow. Dean couldn’t figure that shit out, but he went with it anyway. 

The sour tang of apple liqueur tainted Castiel’s tongue as it swept over Dean’s, and god forgive him, but he was hungry for it. Dean felt drunk on it, even. The only thing grounding him now was the cheap, fake leather gripped between his fingers, Castiel’s tight grip on his cock, the smell of his expensive cologne as Dean buried his face in the safe space between his throat and his shoulder, letting his hips rock into the motion. A peaceful place to breathe as though he’d almost forgotten how. The wet hair curling behind his ear smelled like coconuts. His stubbled skin smelled of sandalwood and warm ginger and Dean thought, an idle thing drifting through the back of his mind, that it wouldn’t be so bad to fall asleep there. It reminded him of what home should smell like. 

The only thing pulling him out was the sound of a rich gravel voice tumbling like river rocks against the side of his neck. “Tell me what you want,” Castiel asked of him. And it shouldn’t have meant anything, but it did. Because no one’s ever asked him that before. Not like this.

Dean didn’t even have to think about it when he opened his mouth, breath hitching, as he lifted his head to give a weak reply. “I want you to fuck me,” he all but gasped. 

It felt like the first true thing they’d ever said to each other.

The hand woven into the hair on the back of his head loosened and was displaced to cup Dean’s cheek, pulling his face up to meet him. A silent request to look into Castiel’s eyes, but Dean couldn’t answer the call yet. He didn’t want to for fear the needling in the backs of his eyes would turn into something liquid and leak. He couldn’t cry like a child in the lap of the man he’d just asked to fuck him. He couldn’t do that here. 

With a shaking exhale, Dean relented. He blinked three times and focused his attention on the eyes of the man gazing back at him showcasing an utterly mystified expression. Dean felt small, but in this light, with the blood red staining both their faces, Castiel’s blue eyes appeared just as black with want as Dean’s. 

“Are you sure?” Castiel’s thumb gently brushed over the skin now faded yellow on the ridge of his cheek. The gesture seemed out of place here. Too personal given they hardly knew each other.

But Dean craved more. And just for the fact he asked at all, Dean lifted his head to give a flimsy nod, the feeling unsteady on his neck. 

“I need you to say it.”

“Want you inside me,” he prayed aloud, voice coming out hoarse, but it was enough for Castiel to groan deep and pull him in for another kiss. A desperate one with their groins colluding in the middle, delivering all the added promise of each one before it. His strong hands came around again to grope and paw at Dean’s ass over his shorts. The feeling caught fire, but before Dean let it spread, he was breaking the kiss again and resting his forehead against Castiel’s, breathing steadying breaths. “Not here,” Dean said with a thick swallow and Castiel slowed his hands at the sound, bringing them around to rest over Dean’s ribs while he mouthed a kiss against the corner of Dean’s parted wet lips.

“Anywhere,” he answered, fingers still itching to explore. “Just name it.”

Releasing his painful grip on the sofa back, Dean carefully brought his hands up to cover Castiel’s and took hold of them, lowering them from his sides as he peeled himself out of his lap. Castiel looked as though he were left out to sea and he reached to drag Dean back in, but he leaned down over him and said between barely there kisses to greedy lips, “Twenty minutes. Go to the street. Turn left and there will be a green door. 313. Lafitte.” And he started moving away again and walking back towards the door. Laying a hand on the knob, he half turned and said, “Go there and I’ll let you in.”

He didn’t wait for an answer before slipping out the door. He just had to trust that Castiel would show up.

Back in the changing room, Dean hurriedly gathered his belongings and shoved most of them back into his duffle bag under the table. He roughly tugged on his wrinkled t-shirt and ripped blue jeans and stepped into his boots, barely bothering to tie up the laces. It took him all of three minutes and then he was headed out to Ash to cash out his tips for the night. It almost felt like it happened on a completely different night, he thought, as he pocketed the wad of cash and made for the exit towards the alleyway. He attempted to shield the top of his head with the collar of his denim jacket.

It was clear out there from what Dean could surmise in the dark, drenched night. No noises, except for the pattering pang of heavy rain drops ricocheting off the tin lids of the garbage cans. Reaching up, he pulled down the fire escape and climbed up the rungs as the weathered soles of his boots squeaked and slipped against the wet metal, but he made it to the bathroom window without incident and he shimmied it open, clumsily crawling inside to escape the rain. He landed bodily with a thud on the old porcelain tile, but picked himself up fast. 

Hastily, he stripped out of his now soaked clothes and shoved the stained shower curtain off to the side to fiddle with the temperature gauges. It needed to be hot and it needed to be quick because he wasn’t about to let someone fuck him in the ass for the first time while covered in glitter and scented body oil and, for all Dean knew, somebody else’s fluids. 

The water sputtered in earnest before it finally heated up to scalding and Dean leapt over the edge and started scrubbing with the bar soap, making sure to rid himself of all traces of glitter, caked on makeup, and whatever else. He wasn’t really sure what kind of preparations were involved for this, but he knew for certain that he hadn’t eaten anything today other than an apple at lunch, so it had to be good enough. Taking an extra moment, he brought a sudsy hand to stroke a few times over his still hard dick and wedged a hand up between his cheeks, lathering it over his hole before letting the hot spray wash it away. He winced at the temperature difference, but after deciding he was as clean as he was going to get he turned the shower off with a groan and fumbled for a dry towel still left on the rack. 

Barely having dried his shoulders off, Dean faltered when the familiar whine of the broken door buzzer droned from out in the living room. Had it already been twenty minutes, or was Castiel early? Honestly, Dean might have been surprised he’d shown up at all if he were giving it much thought. Maybe he was just that drunk. Roughing his hair with the towel, the short strands stood in wet spikes, but he didn’t have time to care because Castiel was waiting out in a downpour right now, so he slung the towel around his hips and tripped over his own feet on the way to let him in.

It couldn’t have taken more than a minute for Castiel to ascend the winding stairway up to the apartment. Dean could hear his heavy footfalls echoing, growing closer. It wasn’t enough time to panic about what they were about to do or to question himself because before the thought could even cross his mind there was a knock on the door. A timid rapping of a knuckle against the wood. Dean didn’t even bother disguising the fact he was waiting on the other side of it, reaching his hand out on autopilot to let him in.

“I couldn't wait any longer,” Castiel said in a burst of breath, answering Deans silent question before the door was fully open.

And there he was. In his fitted denim and his clean, blue dress shirt. That same expensive brown leather jacket. His chaotic mop of hair. All dripping wet with rain water onto the musty hallway carpet at his feet, standing before Dean’s shithole of an apartment. He clearly didn’t belong here, but he wasn’t paying attention to any of it because his dark eyes were roving over Dean’s wet skin, taking it all in like he was seeing him for the first time. 

Dean supposed maybe he really was.

“You showered,” Castiel noted without taking his eyes off the droplets trailing down over Dean’s stomach as they disappeared into the towel.

“Yeah,” Dean said, at a loss.

Fuck, what were they doing? He was about to open his mouth again and invite him inside, but the notion seemed to transfer all on its own, because without even uttering the thought, Castiel was coming through the doorway, crashing into Dean mouth first and throwing his hand back to close the door only as an afterthought. 

In the same instant, he was backing Dean up against the wall behind him. Dean let out an “oof” and shuddered when his skin made contact with the cool plaster, but Castiel’s mouth was insistent as it left Dean’s lips and imparted a new path along the edge of his jaw, dipping to collect the water beading down his throat with his tongue. And so were his hands as they pushed at the damp towel secured around Dean’s hips, a pathetic attempt at modesty. Within seconds it was coiling at his feet on the floor and Castiel was massaging his palms over the muscles in Dean’s ass, pressing their groins together in a solid line, while his thick thigh nudged its way between Dean’s legs. Dean gasped at the feeling of the rough denim against his skin, hands grappling in Castiel’s jacket, but his hips acted of their own accord as he ground his cock against the firm muscle there, a low groan building in his throat. Feeling emboldened, Dean snaked a hand between them and palmed at Castiel’s hard length trapped in his jeans for the first time all night, deliberately digging the heel of his hand in by the tip. 

Castiel groaned a deep, throaty sound against his skin. “Bedroom,” he uttered low, leaving no room to argue. “Now.” He emphasized it with a nip of his teeth to Dean’s bared throat.

Automatically, Dean’s eyes flashed to the sad pillow propped against the arm of the couch and the too-thin blanket draped over the back and there really wasn’t much of a decision to be made. He wasn’t about to announce the fact his bedroom was a glorified second-hand couch. So he thanked whoever wasn’t paying attention for the good fortune that his pal Benny was otherwise occupied tonight and he swore to no one in particular that he would pay for the dry cleaning tomorrow, before he was tightening his fists into the front of Castiel’s leather jacket and clumsily guiding them both along backwards towards Benny’s room. Castiel followed, scarcely allowing his eager lips and roving tongue to leave Dean’s the whole way there.

Dean was used to this part. Boy, girl, it didn’t fucking matter to him. He wasn’t thinking about that right now or the fact he was about to let his uptight asshole of a professor fuck him in somebody else’s bed. Dean barely even thought of the fact Castiel was twice his age, because hell if he wasn’t giving as good as Dean ever could. Dean wasn't thinking at all.

Errantly, Dean reached out a hand to flip the switch by the door and the lamp on the nightstand filled the room in a soft glow just before the backs of his knees hit the edge of the mattress. He fell down onto the disheveled mess of blankets willingly. Castiel wasn’t far behind, sprawling his body out on top of him as he leaned in for another wet, urgent kiss. But there was a glaring issue here that Dean wanted remedied immediately.

“Take off your clothes,” he said into the humid air hanging between them, pawing at the leather jacket bunching around Castiel’s shoulders.

Castiel pulled back, face almost puzzling, like he’d actually forgotten he was still fully clothed. “Right, fuck.” Reluctantly, he dragged himself away. 

Dean propped himself up on his elbows to watch as Castiel kicked his boots off onto the braided rug. He struggled with his leather jacket before flinging it to some forgotten corner and then he reached for the hem of his dress shirt in an attempt to yank it off without having to undo any of the buttons. Inevitably, it got stuck over his head. 

Dean snorted. “Y’know, never really been on this end of a striptease. Startin’ to see the appeal.” 

He let his eyes drift over him while he was safe from repercussion. Castiel’s stomach was toned and tanned, sharp hips jutting out, and he had a faint trail of hair leading from his navel to just below his belt. There was a small freckle adjacent to his nipple that Dean found cute, but he wasn’t about to tell him that. He also had a faded tattoo placed below his ribs. Dean would've never taken him for the type.

Raising his hand out in Dean’s general direction, Castiel flipped him the bird and Dean burst into an unexpected laugh. 

Once his head was freed, hair sticking up like an electric shock, he shot Dean a glare, filled with an entirely different kind of heat. “Another remark and you’ll be feeling me for a week,” he promised as he fumbled with his belt buckle and fly. He slid his pants and boxers down his legs in one swift motion as he abandoned them in a pile on the floor, exposing his equally toned thighs.

Dean gulped and stifled a whimper at the sight of Castiel’s freed erection hanging heavy between his legs. He was long and thick and he was so obviously aching that the tip was already leaking despite the fact he’d barely been touched at all. There wasn’t any doubt now that he wanted Dean back and Dean had little trouble believing he’d be feeling him for a week regardless, but he was absently stroking himself to the thought of it anyway.

“God, look at you.” Castiel’s voice came out rough as he watched Dean’s hand on his own cock and without warning he was sinking to his knees at the foot of the bed, palms finding their way back to glide over the tops of Dean’s spread thighs.

Dean lifted his chin. “What about me?”

Castiel pressed his lips to Dean’s knee before he simply answered, “Everything.” He placed a matching kiss on the other knee as he brought a hand up to replace the one working Dean’s cock. Leisurely, he stroked, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin of Dean’s freckled inner thighs until he found his way to Dean’s balls. Hooded eyes never leaving Dean’s, he gently sucked one into his mouth and then the other, tongue laving a line along the seam, nosing at the underside of Dean’s cock. And he moaned around them, like having Dean’s balls in his mouth was the best fucking thing to ever happen to him. And just as leisurely as he’d stroked him, he licked a long, wet stripe up to the head and he sucked a kiss to the tip.

But Dean didn’t see red this time, there was only black eclipsing blue. 

“Oh, fuck,” Dean whined, teeth gripping his lower lip to fight off another sound at the sight of those pink lips wrapped around him.

“Need to taste you.” That dark mess of hair tangled around his fingers as he held Castiel’s head in place, but Castiel had no interest in sucking his cock. Instead, he pulled off Dean’s tip with a wet suck and he looked at Dean in earnest as he swiped his thumb absently over the underside of Dean’s flushed head. “Do you trust me?”

It was a weird thing to ask, and really, Dean had no reason to after everything, but Castiel had shown up. He was here, so Dean found himself nodding along anyway without even giving it a second thought. “Yeah,” he breathed.

Apparently, it was all Castiel needed to hear.

“Lie back,” he instructed, hands pressing Dean gently towards the head of the bed. Once Dean scooted back, Castiel turned around to grab his jeans off the floor. He rifled through the pockets until he found his wallet and he plucked a condom from the bill fold. “Spread your legs for me.”

Hesitantly, Dean gripped his hands under the crook of his knees, inhaling deep through his nose, before his legs fell apart, feeling more vulnerable than he’d ever felt in his life. The subtle fluttering of butterflies filled his stomach as the cold air caressed his taint, but he told himself it was a good feeling. He wanted this, even if he was legitimately terrified, and he didn’t want Castiel to think he was some inexperienced virgin either, because he wasn’t a virgin, he’d just never done this.

“Do you have any lubricant?”

“Top drawer.” He only knew that because of how often he’d stolen it and put it back before Benny came home. Thank god for that now.

Castiel rummaged around, but found it easily enough and tossed the bottle and the condom on the bed beside Dean. “Lift your hips higher,” he said. Reaching up to grab a spare pillow, Castiel motioned for Dean to put it underneath him so Dean did without argument, and then Castiel was in his space, head dipping to brush a savoring kiss to Dean’s lips, down the center of his chest. He took a brief detour to lave over Dean’s nipples. He grazed the buds between his teeth, drawing out a mewling moan, and Dean wanted him to stay there longer, but he continued on, biting at his hip bones, tongue trailing over his navel, licking his way down to the base of Dean’s cock again until he sat back on his heels. He kissed the backs of Dean’s thighs before he moved towards the center. 

_Oh._ He needed to _taste_ him.

Dean all but yelped at the feeling of a flat, wet tongue lapping over his hole. Slow, wet circles. It felt weird and in the back of his mind, he hoped he cleaned himself well enough, but after a few more laps he forgot to care and then he was practically shaking for more. Teasing his tongue over Dean’s rim, Castiel worked the tip in. 

“Fuck,” Dean panted, “Keep doin’ that.” 

Within minutes, Castiel was tongue deep in his ass, hands kneading and spreading his cheeks apart, and Dean was desperate for it, hips rocking into it. He moaned outright at the foreign sensation, embarrassed by his own pleasure, but he couldn’t hold it back and the sounds only spurred Castiel in deeper. 

Breathlessly, Dean ribbed, “This a bad time to ask for an extension?” 

Castiel just glared in response and swatted his ass cheek while Dean chuckled to himself, but he wasn’t laughing long, because Castiel was reaching up to prod two fingers at Dean’s parted lips to shut him up. Dean sucked them in readily and snaked his tongue between them, soaking them with saliva. Castiel moaned at the feeling and Dean felt the reverberation in the pit of his stomach. Almost as soon as they entered his mouth, they were being yanked out again, and just as quickly, Castiel was shoving the tip of his index finger into Dean’s ass along his tongue, working him open knuckle by knuckle. It burned a little, but Dean almost wanted it too.

When the tip of Castiel’s finger finally brushed over what must have been his prostate, Dean’s eyes pinched shut and his mouth fell silently open like he’d been jolted by a live wire. He’d never been able to hit that spot before. 

When Castiel aimed to fit a second finger in, the sound caught up to him and Dean let out a gasping cry, gripping the blankets. Castiel was scissoring his fingers now and stretching his hole with his curious tongue the whole while and it was altogether too much for Dean to take, but he was helpless to it, so he buried his face in the pillow and just prayed for him to hit that spot again. But he wouldn’t. And eventually, Castiel added a third finger and Dean thought he might come untouched from the pressure in his ass alone, but then Castiel was gone and his hole was left fluttering around nothing.

“Don’t stop.” Dean was practically pleading.

“Shhh,” Castiel soothed, “I’m coming back.” Then the sound of a foil packet ripping between teeth cut the air. There were the sounds of Castiel rolling the condom on and the click of the lubricant bottle filled the room, then he warmed it between his fingers. He was kneeling at the end of the bed while he did, taking in the sight of Dean’s exposed hole waiting for him, his flushed cock lying heavy against his stomach. “You’re beautiful,” he said, as if in awe, and Dean could feel the heat spreading across his face and down his chest at the mere suggestion he was anything close.

“You gonna fuck me or what?”

Castiel smirked. “I intend to, yes.” He seemed unphased by Dean’s brashness. And then his hand was back briefly, three fingers slicking up Dean’s gaping hole and pushing inside without any resistance. With the same hand, Castiel coated his sheathed cock with the excess and wiped the rest on the blankets. Scooting himself forward, Castiel laid a hand to the back of Dean’s thigh, holding him open, and with the other he was lining himself up. He teased the head over Dean’s hole with slow, deliberate passes, pulling small, needy whimpers from him before beginning to press in.

This was the part Dean was afraid of.

Dean was trembling. Whether it was from the cold drafting through the apartment or from nerves, he couldn’t tell, but goosebumps were pricking up on his skin and the part of his brain responsible for breathing went offline. Eyes squeezing shut again, he nestled his face further into the pillow, preparing for the worst. 

And god, did it burn. 

Castiel’s cock was so thick Dean didn’t think it was going to fit and the head hadn’t even breached his rim yet, but Castiel kept pressing and pressing and finally there was give and Dean’s hole was swallowing him inch by torturous inch until their skin met like fire. He tried to stifle it, but a sob broke free from his throat at the same time Castiel released a guttural groan. That’s when he stopped. His hands fell to either side of Dean’s shoulders, keeping him up and caging Dean in between his forearms, but he wasn’t moving, just watching Dean squirm.

“Too big,” Dean managed to relay. “It’s too big.”

“Thought you said it was small,” he teased, though his voice was wrecked.

Dean had to suppress a laugh at himself. “Fuck off,” he stammered. Karma was really biting him in the ass right now.

Leaning down over him, Castiel murmured next to his ear, “This isn’t going to happen if you don’t trust me, Dean,” he said it as if his dick wasn’t buried deep in Dean’s ass already. “Do you understand?” He nibbled on the lobe while he waited for an answer.

How he was managing to sound so controlled right now, Dean couldn’t figure out, but Dean gave him a jerky nod against the pillow.

“I’m not going to hurt you, but I need you to breathe for me and I need you to tell me again, do you trust me?”

“Yes!” he gasped. “Just, please-- just move.” He writhed underneath him, praying for Castiel to get the message, but he didn’t move, he just waited.

“Yes, what?”

“ _I trust you. Fuck._ ” 

Castiel placed a kiss to his sweat-drenched temple, humming a roughened acknowledgment as he resumed. “Breathe,” he reminded him, before he was retracting his hips again, just as slowly as he’d entered.

Dean sucked in a deep breath through his nose just to shut him up, but then Castiel was pushing back in and it came tumbling out of his mouth. A punched out sound, something akin to a moan, at the feeling of being filled. And it still burned. Fuck, did it ever. And it still felt alien inside of him, but after a few carefully measured thrusts, Dean grew used to the feeling and the burning stretch of his hole started to feel almost good. 

The slow grind of their hips moving together was enough for a while, until it wasn’t. Castiel’s skin was slick with sweat as he attempted to control his pace to accommodate Dean, but Dean didn’t want to be accommodated for anymore. Dean needed more. He needed to feel closer.

Disentangling his fists from the mess of sheets, Dean brought his arms up to wrap around Castiel’s broad shoulders, hauling him in and his arms bent at the elbow. The action caused Dean’s neglected cock to get caught up in the slide between their stomachs and the dueling sensations were warring under his skin. 

Tilting his chin to nudge the side of Castiel’s face, Dean captured his ear lobe between his teeth, grazing over the thin skin. “Harder,” he urged.

“Whatever you want,” Castiel replied between grunts.

Digging his heels against Castiel’s ass, Dean spurred him to move faster. “Want you to fuck me like you mean it.”

“Mmmm, god yes.” Castiel rasped a groan, his own fists clenching the blankets around Dean as a shiver ran down his spine. 

Almost as soon as the words left Dean’s mouth, Castiel was picking up the pace, hips pumping like he’d been waiting for Dean’s permission to let loose this whole time. And then he canted his hips at just the right angle like he knew exactly where to pound, and fuck, but Dean couldn’t shut his goddamn mouth. Moan after moan being forced out of him with every slap of Castiel’s balls against his ass. It took him everything just to hang on. Nails scraping lines into the skin of his back like lashes. He hated the way he sounded, like he was the chick in some poorly scripted porno, but Castiel kept hitting that one spot like his life depended on it and Dean was just helplessly along for the ride.

“Touch me,” he whined, “Please.” He told himself he wasn’t begging, but that was exactly what it sounded like. “Touch my dick.” He didn’t think he had the brain power left to do it himself. Hell, he was impressed he was forming words between the persistent pummeling of his prostate.

As if on Dean’s command, Castiel reached a hand between them and wrapped a tight fist around Dean’s cock, the tip all but drooling precum by now. Both their stomachs wet with the stuff. And he jacked him just as unrelentingly fast as he was fucking him, perfectly in time with his hips, blue eyes never leaving Dean’s all the while.

“I’m gonna-- I need to--Cas--”

“Come for me, Dean,” he growled. “I’ve got you.”

And Dean was a goner. 

“Oh, fuck-- oh, fuck-- oh, fuck,” Dean was chanting a litany. Eyes screwing shut, Dean thought he might actually be going blind. His hips jerked off the bed and his muscles seized up like he was shocked by that very same livewire. His mouth fell open in a silent shout as thick ropes of cum splashed across his stomach and up his chest, a high-pitched keen finally escaping him. 

It only took a few more driven thrusts before Castiel was hurtling over the edge with him, cock twitching deep inside Dean’s clenching ass as he filled the condom. And then he just fell on top of him in a heap without even caring they were now both coated in Dean’s jizz. 

Dean was still trembling.

“Shhh, you’re okay. Just breathe, Dean,” Castiel murmured by his ear again like he was attempting to lull a small child out of a nightmare. “Dean,” he tried again, nose brushing over Dean’s cheek, “Look at me, please.” His voice sounded thoroughly obliterated, but he was reining it in. Dropping his head, Castiel began scattering soft, lazy kisses across the expanse of Dean’s chest and collarbone while he waited. 

His eyes were stinging something fierce. He couldn’t just open them. Dean didn’t know it could be like this; didn’t know someone could touch him like that, or get off on making him feel good. Hell, he couldn’t even remember the last time someone even tried. And that was eight different kinds of pathetic, but as he was, one single, stray tear rolled hot down his cheek. It only took a moment longer, but finally Dean did look at him, though he knew this time his eyes were glassy with unshed tears. Dean hated himself for it, but he didn’t break the eye contact. He didn’t even make a sound save for trying to catch his breath. 

“There you are,” Castiel said in that same calming voice, like Dean had been lost till now. Using his clean hand, Castiel wiped the salty trail away with the brush of a thumb against his cheek. “You’re okay.” 

He wasn’t asking, he was affirming, and Dean claimed he trusted him before, so he had to trust him on this too. Luckily, though, he didn't remark on it.

Idly, Dean wished he could stay in this one moment forever, but then Castiel was raising himself up on wobbly elbows and sliding his spent dick out of Dean’s hole and the loss of it was a shock to Dean’s system.

“Fuck,” Castiel panted against the hollow of Dean’s throat, breath ragged.

“Yeah,” Dean said, for lack of anything better. 

He was still coming down, the occasional aftershock pulsing along with his heartbeat, making it hard to think. He thanked that same higher power that he didn’t shit himself in the here and now just to make it worse, but he wasn’t about to lie, it was something he was scared would happen to him. He didn’t dwell on it long, because Castiel had rolled off of him onto his back and he was just staring at the popcorn ceiling like it was full of stars or held the secrets of the universe or some shit while he willed his breathing back to normal and Dean thought watching him seemed like a better use of his time. 

He was beautiful like this, he thought. Skin flushed. Hair a mess.

“You okay there, gramps?” Dean asked after a minute.

Castiel ignored the jab, eyes unmoving. “More than,” he said with a huff. He ran his fingers through his hair to smooth it, but it only made it worse.

“Not gonna croak on me are you?”

If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d say the corners of Castiel’s lips were fighting back a smile. “You’re awfully fresh for someone who was begging for it a moment ago.” He lazily lifted the hand laying between them to pinch at Dean’s side.

Dean bit the inside of his cheek to stave of a grin of his own. “What can I say, all part of my charm.” 

Castiel turned his head to regard Dean’s smug profile and he let a small smile slip. “Yes, I suppose it is,” he said, “I’d kiss that shit-eating expression off your face, but I’m afraid I should use some mouthwash first.”

Why would Castiel want to kiss him now? The sex part was over. Dean laughed at the play on words anyway.

Then Castiel was sitting himself up on the edge of the bed. He wrinkled his nose as he slid the used condom off and tied it up. He looked down to his own chest, noting the semen rubbed against his skin, before glancing back over to appraise Dean. As he did, his stomach let out a loud rumbling growl into the quiet room.

Dean chuckled at him. “You hungry or what?”

Castiel rubbed a guilty hand over the back of his neck, but nodded just the same. “Yes, actually, I hadn’t eaten much before I left the house earlier.”

Dean nodded, throat clicking. “I can, uh, try to find somethin’ if you want. I’m kinda hungry too.”

After Dean wiped his stomach off, he threw on an old Pink Floyd tee from Benny’s dresser he looked like he was swimming in and headed back out to the kitchen. There wasn’t much, honestly. Dean scoured the cabinets and the tragically empty fridge in hopes of finding something edible, but the only thing he could find were a few slices of white bread.

“How do you feel about PB&J?” he called, sniffing a forgotten jar of grape jelly on the fridge door.

Castiel approached him from behind, slipping on his pair of white boxers over his hips. “PB&J sounds perfect,” he replied, settling his hips to lean against the counter. A warm expression coloring his features.

“What’s with the face?” Dean asked, eyeing him as he grabbed a butter knife from the drawer and closed it with his hip.

“What face?”

Gesturing to his face with the knife, Dean just said, “I dunno, whatever that face is you’re making.”

“I’m not making a face.”

Dean scoffed. “If you say so.” He laid out the bread on the counter and unscrewed the lids to the peanut butter and jelly, meticulously spreading both out in even layers. Castiel let out a soft sound as he watched him. It sounded like a chuckle as Dean cut the sandwiches in diagonals; A habit he was used to from taking care of Sam after school all those years. “What’s so funny?” he asked as he handed a plate over to him and sucked the jelly off his thumb.

“Nothing,” said Castiel, biting into half of his sandwich to hide his smirk. “This is very good, thank you.”

“Just a PB&J. Hard to fuck that up,” he said with a shrug.

They ate in awkward silence for a few minutes and Dean did his best to avoid Castiel’s weirdly reverent gaze, choosing instead to stare at the wan moonlight breaking over the dark water across the way. Though, he was uncomfortable. He’d never felt that vulnerable in front of anyone before and the feeling left much to be desired as far as Dean was concerned. Castiel was just another name on the list of people Dean didn’t want to feel weak in front of, yet here Dean was making him a goddamn PB&J with the metaphorical crusts cut off after getting fucked in the ass and crying about it. 

He tried to rest his backside against the counter, but it hurt too much, so he just resolved to stand facing the cabinets instead. “I’m clean y’know,” he said disrupting the quiet, without turning his head. “I don’t got any STDs or whatever. I get tested so you don’t gotta worry.”

Castiel swallowed part of his sandwich before saying, “I… hadn’t thought about that at all, if I’m being honest. Thank you for telling me. I’m clean as well, if that helps.” 

Dean never doubted he would be.

Castiel’s eyebrows scrunched together as he considered the second half of his sandwich. “May I ask you something, Dean?”

“Uh, I guess so. Shoot.”

He paused a moment like he was trying to figure out how to say it. Dean wished he would just spit it out already.

“That was your first time.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. It wasn’t critical, it just _was_ , but Dean still felt his guard going up anyway.

“No, it wasn’t.” It was only half true.

Castiel had this omniscient look on his face that was kind of pissing Dean off a little bit. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not a virgin,” he defended.

“I never accused you of being one. Not that there's anything wrong with being one, that is.”

Dean rolled his eyes and shook his head. Guy really loved playing semantics. “And what if it was? The fuck does that matter?”

Castiel tilted his head, mulling it over. “Then I would say I’m in no position to judge you one way or the other, and I would say thank you for trusting me enough to be the one to share that experience with you.”

“It’s no big deal,” Dean sniffed, putting his plate in the sink.

“To some people it is; I know it was for myself. For what it’s worth, you were divine.” After a pause, he added, “I’ve thought about this countless times, but this exceeded all of them.”

Dean snorted. “You’re just drunk.” He could feel the heat spreading across his face again at the word ‘divine’. And the notion Castiel thought about him at all.

“Not really,” Castiel said. “Not enough,” he corrected with a laugh. Standing himself up, he brought his plate around to stack in the sink on top of Dean’s. Though, if Dean didn’t know any better, he’d say it was just to force Dean to look him in the eye. “This wasn’t just because I was drinking. It’s important you know that.”

“Yeah, and why should I believe you?”

Castiel shrugged. “You shouldn’t I suppose, but then again, you did say you trusted me.” Dean rolled his eyes again and Castiel smiled. A small thing lifting his lips. He reached for Dean’s hand and, reluctantly, Dean let him take it. He intertwined their fingers and pressed a kiss to Dean’s knuckles. “I said I was sorry and I meant it.”

Hesitantly, Dean asked, “Do you, uh, do you have anywhere you need to be right now?”

“Dean, it’s nearly 3 in the morning,” Castiel reminded, amused.

“Right. So, when are you gonna leave?”

“Whenever you want me to.”

“I don’t want you to,” Dean admitted in an embarrassing rush of breath. “It's still raining. Do you… want to stay over, or whatever?”

“I am yours for the night.” Castiel smiled. “However, I think we should get cleaned up first, don’t you?”

Dean couldn’t disagree. There was lube drying tacky between his ass cheeks on top of everything else. “Um, shower… I mean we could use it, I guess.”

“Of course, lead the way.”

The apartment was freezing as Dean led Castiel into the bathroom, wincing with every step. He attempted to tidy up the clothes he’d shucked off earlier into the hamper before Castiel saw, and then he reached around the shower curtain to turn the gauges. They stripped while the water sputtered to heat up again and Castiel perched himself against the doorframe as Dean crouched to search under the sink.

Plunking a half-empty bottle of mouthwash on the counter, Dean stood and turned to hand it over to him. “Here,” he said and Castiel took it with that same warm expression Dean couldn’t place.

He came to stand next to Dean at the sink and tossed back a mouthful, thoroughly swishing it around in his cheeks, then spit it out in the sink. He handed the bottle back to Dean with a smile. “Thank you,” he said, before placing a hand to rest at the back of Dean’s head to tug him in for a simple, unrushed kiss. The sting of peppermint was burning on his tongue. By the time Dean got with the program enough to close his eyes, Castiel was pulling away and stepping into the shower. 

“No problem,” he muttered to the empty space where Castiel had been. 

He never would’ve thought Castiel would be so overtly affectionate after sex. Then again, he never would have thought the uptight Castiel he’d become acquainted with would be having sex like that either. It must have been the alcohol, despite what he claimed. 

Dean had never showered with anyone else before. He kind of thought it would be like it was in the movies or like in porn. Just two people covered in soap and shit going at it, but it wasn’t like that. It was nice, if not a little cramped.

Castiel quickly used the soap to clean himself and then he turned around to offer Dean the spot under the shower head. He didn’t hand him the soap. Instead, he did that part himself. With soapy hands and a washcloth, he washed over Dean’s back for him. 

“I thoroughly enjoy your freckles,” he murmured as he cleaned his shoulders, and Dean could feel himself blushing. Thankfully, Castiel couldn’t see it. Carefully, he cleansed between Dean’s ass cheeks, gingerly brushing suds over his oversensitive hole as Dean tried not to wince. “This whole side, really.” And then he wrapped his hands around him to wash over Dean’s stomach. “This side is good too,” he added playfully, placing another lingering kiss to the side of Dean’s neck. “You’re a work of art, Dean.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Whether he wanted to or not, Dean couldn’t bite back the shy smile that grew on his face. “You’re not so bad to look at either, I guess.” 

Dean didn’t think he’d ever felt so clean in all his life. 

Once Castiel decided they were both good enough, he was reaching around Dean to turn the shower off and stepping out to grab the only towel left in the bathroom. He offered it out to Dean first, and then used the damp towel to dry himself second.

They put the same t-shirt and boxers back on as before. Castiel didn’t have much of a choice and Dean was still working under the pretense that Benny’s room was his, so he figured Castiel might find it odd that Dean kept his clothes in the coat closet by the door. Besides, it never hurt to wear a shirt multiple times, probably. Pink Floyd never did nothing to nobody, but if you asked Sam, he would describe Dean as somewhat of a ‘neat freak’. Sam wouldn’t necessarily be wrong, but this was a small price to pay to keep the remaining shred of dignity he had in tact for a few more hours. 

It felt strange. Being in a bed again. Especially being in someone else’s bed with another person who also happened to be his Art History professor. His Art History professor that he’d been pining after since the second he saw him. It was all kind of catching up to him in that moment. Castiel was here. He couldn’t pretend this shit never happened anymore. It didn’t really go down the way he’d expected and Dean didn’t really know what made him show up on that sofa the way he did, but right now Dean was almost too afraid to ask. He didn’t want to fuck whatever this was up by asking questions, so he didn’t. Dean was just grateful it wasn’t awkward laying next to him. They were both exhausted after everything anyway. 

“Would you like to know something?” Castiel whispered into the dark.

Dean could feel the words in the warm breath against his skin as much as he could hear them. He didn’t answer, he just waited for the rest to follow.

Like a quiet confession, he said, “I have dreams about you, Dean.” 

Dean let out a laugh. “Bullshit. Now I know you’re shitfaced.”

“It’s true.” The tone of his voice was smiling. “Not just sexual dreams. The best ones never are. They’re just vague rememberings really, but I recognize you. The color of your eyes. The brightness of your smile. Even the genuine way you laugh. I wake up and I tell myself I shouldn’t, you know, really try to convince myself I don’t want to have them anymore. But every night, before I go to sleep, I pray to have another one. I look forward to going to sleep because of you.” He kissed Dean’s neck. “I suppose you could blame this admission on the alcohol--”

Before Castiel could finish his sentence, Dean was turning himself around in his arms. He needed to see him. He needed to weigh the sincerity there. Dean found his eyes in the dark, the only light being the faint flickering glow of the neon sign below, and he seemed to mean it, but what the fuck did Dean know? 

Without thinking, Dean captured Castiel’s lips in a bruising kiss. Teeth knocking together on contact, but Dean didn't care. Not even about the fact Castiel’s tongue had been in his ass or the fact he was probably just telling Dean the shit he wanted to hear. He captured Castiel’s bottom lip between his teeth and licked his tongue over it and Castiel returned it before pulling away to place a calming hand to the side of Dean’s face.

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispered.

Thumb gently stroking the yellowed skin under his eye, Castiel asked, “For what?” 

“For threatening you.” For luring him here, but Dean didn’t say that. He couldn’t because he wasn’t sorry Castiel was here, no matter how he got there.

And of course, all he said in return was, “Don’t be.”

Dean wanted to scoff at the simple phrase. “I wouldn’t do that, y’know. I wouldn’t blackmail you. I was just angry.”

“I know, I don’t hold it against you. I wouldn't be here right now if I did.” He raised his chin to press a chaste kiss to Dean’s forehead. “Get some sleep, Dean.”

Dean gave a slight nod and rolled himself over to face the window again, settling into the wall of comforting heat that was Castiel’s body on the other side of the bed. “Still think you’re kind of a dick, though,” he added, drifting off.

Castiel hummed in sleepy agreement. “I'd be more concerned if you didn't.”

His arms wove around him, pulling Dean closer, and the only response Dean could muster was a shuddered sigh when Castiel brushed a tender kiss to the nape of his neck. 

“Goodnight, Dean.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In before the one month mark.. sorry for the wait. got in a bit of a car accident due to a snow storm a couple weeks ago and didn't have the time to write much. i'm fine, just stressed lol. anyway without further adieu... an update!

Warmth. Peace. Serenity. The sudden urge to vomit. 

These were a few of the things Castiel felt as his eyelids opened slits in the dark. The harsh dark surrounding him made it hard to see despite the light creeping through the cracked blinds. For a moment he forgot where he was until the subtle smell of bar soap and clean skin tickled his nose. 

They’d only been asleep for a couple hours now. It was just before dawn breaking; the sun was scarcely showing itself in the muted sky and the high ridge of Dean’s cheekbone was aglow in the intermittent pulse of the neon sign flashing in the fog. He looked more beautiful still while he slept. The relaxed rise and fall of his chest inside the cage of Castiel’s arms. A warrior at peace for now. Because Dean had still been fighting up until sleep carried him away, but Castiel expected nothing less.

Carefully extracting himself from the tangled mess of limbs, Castiel stumbled his way through the apartment, shoulders bumping against unfamiliar architecture, as he headed for the toilet. Once he found it, he fell to his knees on the porcelain tile and slumped over the bowl. Waiting. The sensation of saliva coating thick the inside of his mouth. That same familiar feeling of unease needling the pit of his stomach. There was no doubt he was going to vomit, but he didn’t think he’d been that far gone to warrant it. 

Soon enough, Castiel’s stomach emitted an angry growl and the proverbial monster erupted up and out of his throat, hitting the bowl and splashing onto his chin as he coughed. He barely had anything to throw up as it were. Another bout of nausea struck him again; more stomach bile and spit than substance. Once the feeling passed, Castiel wiped off his face on the back of his hand and propped himself against the tiled wall opposite the toilet, taking in steadying breaths as reality struck him. 

Why were his hands shaking? Maybe this feeling was regret.

Reasonably speaking, he should regret it. That would be the rational response. He was sobered now, he shouldn’t want to be here anymore. He should want to get as far away from here as possible actually. Attempt to preserve whatever self-control he had left, as well as a feigned concern for the set of rules he held himself to. Instead, he wanted nothing more than to return to bed and wake Dean with another kiss to his pillowy lips. Make them part to cry his name again and pretend whatever happened here had no bearing on the rest of his life.

And god, Dean had been exquisite. He could listen to those moans and whimpers like a virtual symphony on repeat for the rest of his pathetic life and not miss the way the rest of the world sounded. He could taste Dean forever.

But perhaps he had to be the voice of reason here. Perhaps he had to make the responsible decision despite everything inside him rejecting the notion. Suddenly, he wished he could seek revelation from Balthazar and just as it happened, he silently cursed himself for it. For tearing himself into too many tiny little pieces and scattering them in the wind. He wanted too many things at once.

Gathering his bearings, Castiel made his way to the bedroom as quietly as possible, taking great care not to hit anything else on the way there. He felt around on the braided rug for the heap of jeans and his button down shirt and he sat on the very edge of the bed as not to wake Dean as he dressed. Undoing the buttons, he shrugged into his shirt the proper way this time and he tugged the semi-dry jeans up to his knees before he stood and finished up the fly and belt buckle. Dean hadn’t woken to any of this. Small huffs of breath tumbled over his parted lips while his face was half buried in the pillow. The sight pulled at something in Castiel’s chest, as he slipped his feet back into his boots at the end of the bed. He hesitated a moment there, but ultimately tore himself away with the hopes to find a scrap of paper and a pen. 

To his misfortune, he could only manage to find a Chinese takeout menu in the kitchen, but it served the same purpose. 

What did he even want to say here? ‘Thank you for the sex, see you next Tuesday’? ‘Sorry I’m a constant disappointment’? ‘You’re beautiful when you sleep’? He started to write something, but he ended up scribbling it out just as quickly. Maybe not mentioning anything they’d done would be a better route to take, but he had to say something. He couldn’t just fuck and flee like a coward, though that was exactly what his lizard brain was telling him to do.

Just as he laid the tip of the pen to the grease-stained paper to write another sorry excuse for a note, there was a tentative creaking of the floorboards and he let it drop to the counter. 

And there was Dean.

Castiel gulped. If it were physically possible, he would have tried to kick his own ass in this one instant.

“What’re you doin’ out here?” Dean’s voice was thick with sleep and confusion as he rubbed at his eyes, trying to discern Castiel in the dark.

Castiel stared at the shape of him waiting in the bedroom doorway and he willed his throat to make a sound. Any sound really. “I-um,” he croaked, “I was just getting a glass of water.” Most definitely, not trying to slip out before he woke up in a fit of panic, but Dean readily believed it because Dean was young and naive. And that said more about Castiel than it did about Dean; that he was willing to take advantage of those traits so freely again.

“Oh,” he said on a yawn. With a pop of his shoulders, Dean stretched and turned. “Bring me one too?”

With a jerky nod, Castiel abandoned the takeout menu and searched for a glass resting by the sink, filling from the tap. 

Dean was slightly awake and Castiel was fully clothed, surely he would notice how much of a hapless mess Castiel was now. What a mistake it was to trust him. But none of it felt like a mistake; it felt like the best thing that’d ever happened to him, as pathetic as that would sound aloud. Like Dean was a bright light in his solar system luring him out of his sorry existence. Not that the sun needed the planets; the sun could destroy them whenever it pleased. And that was all Castiel was: a dutiful planet begging to be burned up by young star. But Dean wouldn’t do that, or so he’d claimed. 

Castiel thought maybe this was a form of punishment he simply didn't deserve. Or it was a sign that he was meant to stay. So without further adieu, he brought Dean the glass of water and set it down on the nightstand by the edge of the bed. 

Dean was already wrapped up in the comforter again, clutching at the dregs of warmth Castiel had left in his wake. “Mmh,” he hummed into the pillow. Castiel approximated this was a form of ‘thank you’.

If Dean fell asleep again, Castiel could plausibly escape. He could just wait those few minutes more, soundlessly make his way to the front door while Dean were none the wiser, and then he would be home free. The gears in his slow brain were still turning to find an out. 

He could do that. It could be that easy. Yet his feet weren't moving.

God, Castiel was an asshole. Why Dean even wanted him at all, he still couldn’t figure out. What was he even doing? Dean deserved the world, not to be abandoned. He couldn’t do that to him again. He had apologized- they both did- and for some reason Dean accepted his fumbling excuses. He couldn’t just run away this time. He wouldn’t.

Dean reached out to blindly grasp at his hand hanging limp by his side. The light touch of fingertips shocked Castiel back to the present. “C’mere,” was all Dean murmured before he turned over and buried himself further, but god help him, it was enough.

Castiel gave a shake of his head, more to himself than anything, and he hoarsely whispered back, “Of course.” 

Wordlessly, he stripped back down to his boxers, depositing his clothes in a pile on the rug, and he laid himself down in the empty space he’d occupied before. Dean was facing him this time, still not quite asleep, and when Castiel lay still, Dean nestled himself into Castiel’s side like he belonged there. And who was Castiel to argue now? It felt like he did. He wrapped his arm around him and rested a hand on Dean’s shoulder, fingers idly sweeping circles over the under the sleeve of his worn t-shirt. He could feel the second Dean drifted off again in the pocket of warmth they carved out for themselves.

Eventually, feeling the wisps of Dean’s easy breath across his chest, Castiel drifted back to sleep too.

^^^

The next time he awoke, the orange sun was bleeding through the blinds. The backdrop of it illuminated Dean’s profile as he propped himself up to drink from the tepid glass of water on the nightstand. Castiel peered at him through squinted lids, fighting against the light, just to watch his throat work as he swallowed, but Dean caught him peeking out the corner of his eye. A shy smile spread across his face at being watched.

“Mornin’,” he said with a slight blush, offering out the glass. “You look like shit.”

Castiel stretched like a cat and groaned into the pillow. He knew by the height of the sun it was still too early for a Saturday-- for any day. “Hello, Dean,” he grumbled in return. His voice came out grating. Ignoring the headache forming behind his eyes, he took the glass of water and drank. It tasted like morning breath and residual stomach bile, but he drank until the glass was empty and handed it back.

Dean was noticeably more alert now and after he replaced the glass on the nightstand he paused a moment then he was timidly nudging himself back under Castiel’s sleep-heavy arms. Dean chanced a hesitant glance at him, green eyes glowing in the early morning light, almost as if he weren’t sure he was allowed to do this in the light of day. Castiel sleepily draping an arm around his back encouraged him to relax into it. “I, uh-- wasn’t really expectin’ you to be here when I woke up.” His lower lip caught between his teeth. “Glad you stayed.”

Castiel looked away as though Dean might be able to read his traitorous thoughts. The corners of his mouth lifted involuntarily at the idea Dean was glad to see him. “I am too,” he said, and despite his initial gut-reaction to cut and run, he found he genuinely meant it. It was all he said before Dean was leaning in without warning to experimentally press their mouths together. 

Dean gently prodded the seam of Castiel’s lips for permission and Castiel opened for him with an appreciative hum, gently caressing his tongue over Dean’s to taste him again. Morning breath didn’t seem so bad now and he smiled into the kiss when it seemed like Dean was doing the same. The short hairs on the back of Dean’s head tickled between his fingers as Castiel laid a grounding hand to the nape of his neck. There was no rush to it, and if it were left up to him, Castiel might have thought they’d all the time in the world to do this. 

Maybe they did. Maybe they could stay like this forever and forget the real world.

“Your mouth tastes like ass,” Dean teased when he finally pulled away.

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Gee, I wonder why,” he deadpanned, playfully shoving at Dean’s shoulder.

A bright grin flashed briefly across Dean’s face. Clearly unswayed by the taste, Dean’s smile drifted away, but he stared at Castiel’s lips again and met his eyes as if in wonder. All gold-flecked irises and auburn freckles in the sunlight. He was looking at Castiel like he was something else entirely. Like a precious pearl found at the bottom of the ocean. Like he was an oasis in the desert. But he was just Castiel. He was still a dick, and he wasn’t any different than he had been a month ago. Dean just didn’t need to know that much. 

When Castiel yawned again, Dean asked, “Not much of a morning person, are you?”

“Understatement.” Castiel groaned and rubbed at his bleary eyes. “There’s a reason all my classes are scheduled in the afternoon.” He slid his palm under the hem of Dean’s oversized t-shirt to rest on the small of his back. The skin there was warm and welcoming. 

Dean gave the illusion he was deep in thought. “Maybe I can help with that.”

“Oh, can you? And just how do you propose to persuade me?”

Dean gave a casual shrug and looked like he was fighting back another smile. What he settled on was a cocky smirk. “I can think of a few things.”

Castiel huffed a laugh. “You’re too sore,” he asserted.

“Am not.”

Reaching lower, Castiel slipped his hand over Dean’s bare ass and he gingerly massaged it with his palm. Dean winced. Arching an eyebrow, Castiel said, “You were saying?”

Leaning back in, Dean nipped and grazed Castiel’s lower lip. “There’s other stuff,” he said between languid kisses. 

“Hmm, ‘stuff’? I’m listening...” 

Bringing his free hand between them, Dean ran his knuckles along the trail of hair disappearing under the hem of Castiel’s boxers. Like he was testing the water, Dean’s fingers dipped below the waistband at the same time he pushed into Castiel’s mouth and Castiel greedily sucked the tip of his tongue as Dean’s warm hand came to wrap around the base of his half hard length.

Languorously, Dean stroked his length from root to tip and within the minute Castiel was at full attention. Castiel gave himself over to the gentle affection with an anticipatory groan as he rolled his hips into Dean’s touch. Passing his thumb over the tip, Dean collected his precum and spread it slick with his palm, but he didn’t speed up his movements. He went slow, almost torturously so, but it was all Castiel’s sleep addled brain could take.

When Dean licked a stripe on his palm and rubbed circles underneath Castiel’s flushed head, Castiel shuddered and let slip the word, “Dean,” into the air they were sharing. He brought his hand to rest on Dean’s hip, goading him inward with firm fingertips and Dean swallowed his name hungrily, but made no move to go faster. He shuffled himself even closer and just the sheer proximity of Dean’s erection pressing against his thigh was enough to induce him. This was how Castiel came that morning. His hips desperately rocking into Dean’s leisurely fist and stringing together noises that sounded exactly like Dean’s name. 

And Dean had been right; the name was easier to call out.

Castiel couldn’t have asked for anything more in that moment, but Dean needed to be taken care of too, so he clumsily maneuvered himself lower in the bed and reached for Dean’s neglected cock. The head was flushed a slick red and it twitched for him when Castiel wet his lips at the sight. Without preamble, Castiel lowered his head to take Dean into his mouth and Dean let out an unexpecting gasp, fingers finding their way to tangle into Castiel’s already unruly locks of hair. Dean’s eyebrows bunched in the middle and his spit shined lips parted as he watched Castiel bob and suck him into his mouth, inch by inch, until he hit the back of his throat. 

“Fuck, Cas--” he panted. “Please,” he said more than once without specifying for what he was begging.

Castiel’s palms skimmed over Dean’s sleep-warmed skin, feeling the prickle of new body hair growing in, and fully appreciating the freckles scattered across his pale thighs in the light. Dean really was a work of art. Nothing in this world or the next would convince him otherwise. Hollowing his cheeks, Castiel took him deeper and undulated his throat around Dean’s cock head until his fingers tugged just this side of painful. Pressing him flat, Castiel held him still so his hips wouldn’t buck up. 

“I’m gonna--” he prefaced and Castiel just gripped his hips and swallowed harder. And Dean came hot and hard down the back of his throat and Castiel swallowed all of it before Dean was clutching the hinges of his jaw to yank him back up for another lazy excuse for a kiss. All tongue and loose lips more than anything else.

Eventually, Dean pulled back to rest their foreheads together like he was trying to absorb whatever Castiel was thinking. Admittedly, the breath they were sharing didn’t smell particularly good, but Castiel still chased it as if it were the only air in the room.

“I think I like when you call me Cas,” he mused, eyes still closed.

Dean huffed, warm against his cheek. “Didn’t do it on purpose,” he admitted, albeit a little breathless.

With a smirk on his face, Castiel shrugged. “Still.”

“So, did it work?” 

Dean opened his eyes at the same time Castiel did. Castiel grinned at him and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Very much so.” He placed a gentle peck to Dean’s chin. “Thank you.” Laying himself down, he allowed Dean to curl around him again to bask in the afterglow and brought his palm up to cup the side of Dean’s face. “You’re perfect,” he said without even thinking and he waited for the inevitable objection because Dean seemed painfully unaware of just how good he was. 

And it came like clockwork. Deans cheeks flushed pink and he rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay. If you say so.” 

“I do.” Idly, he decided his new life mission should be to make Dean believe him at least once.

Castiel lightly swept his thumb over the yellowed remnant of his bruise and he subconsciously tried to will it away. Some part of him thought maybe if he laid enough gentle touches to it, it would cancel out the bad and the damnable thing would heal faster or disappear entirely, leaving Dean’s skin unmarred. It was hard for him to separate the time before it appeared to now. At this point, it seemed like it might as well have always been there. A permanent fixture.

Their hands roamed freely without any real purpose now; purely as a way to map and catalogue each new stretch of skin they were allowing each other, but then Castiel broke the peace and quiet. 

With another featherlight brush of his thumb, he dumbly asked, “Will you tell me how it happened?” He knew he was playing with fire by posing the question, he just felt compelled to ask.

In an instant, Dean retracted in on himself. Where he’d been previously leaning into Castiel’s touch, he was now pulling away and trying to hide his face in Castiel’s shoulder. “S’nothin’,” he mumbled against Castiel’s neck as he breathed him in and planted deliberate kisses there in an effort to distract him.

It worked, marginally, but Castiel wouldn’t allow himself to be so easily swayed. “Dean.” He meant it to be disapproving, but it came out sounding much the opposite, so Dean kept right on going, sucking wet circles along the ridge of his collarbone. Castiel breathed in through his nose and released it past his lips with a wanting noise, but he cut it off himself. He couldn't get hard again that fast anyway. Cradling Dean’s face in his hands, he lifted his chin and forced him to meet his eyes. Castiel’s gaze was imploring.

“This your idea of pillow talk? Cuz I gotta say, it’s really lacking.” Dean rolled his eyes and snorted when Castiel’s expression didn’t change. “It’s just a bruise,” he said far too casually.

Castiel balked. “Just a bruise?”

“Yeah, don’t tell me you never seen one before.” He laughed. “Find it hard to believe you of all people’ve never been punched in the face.” Pulling away from Castiel, Dean flopped onto his back. “It’s no big deal.”

“Dean, someone struck you--”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious.”

Castiel reached out for Dean’s hand and, despite his hackles raised, Dean let him take it. Hesitantly, he broached, “Was it... a customer?”

Dean released a breath like he was releasing trapped steam and ran his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, it was a customer.”

“What happened?”

Dean squeezed Castiel’s hand almost subconsciously as he steeled himself. “You really wanna know?”

Castiel nodded into the pillow and ignored the cum drying cold against his skin. Dean rolled his eyes again at the concern in his face.

“Yeah, okay. Well, I was at work, obviously. Had a bad day and this drunk asshole got a little too handsy.” He flicked his gaze downward to portray his message in an offhand kind of way, but the look in his eyes betrayed his casualness. “I told him to ‘eat shit’ and spit in his face. Turns out people don’t take too kindly to that, so he decked me one.” 

Castiel’s eyebrows pinched as he observed Dean’s stricken face. It was obvious how unsettled he was regardless of how he tried to spin it. “I’m sorry that happened to you,” he said, because he wasn’t sure what he could even say. 

Something was warring behind Dean’s expression and his lips parted and closed like he couldn’t decide whether to voice it or not. Ultimately, he did. Voice going softer, he said, “I actually... I blamed you for a while. For my bad mood that night. For letting you get in my head. And then that night at the Roadhouse, when you… when you grabbed my wrist. The guy he--” Dean forced the words back down with a dry swallow, mouth like sandpaper. Castiel tracked his free hand coming up to rub his throat as though he were reliving past torments, but it was gone just as quick. “I mean, it’s not my first rodeo. Hell, probably not even my last. I was just- I was stupid. Plain and simple. I was ignoring my gut cuz I wanted his money.”

Maybe it happened all the time. That didn't make a sad song better. Castiel felt his heart breaking for him, but he would never voice that. Dean was too proud for it.

“Dean,” Castiel said to get his attention. “If I could take back the things I said, I would. I’d do it in a heartbeat. They’re more reflective of myself than of you.”

Dean considered it with another shrug. “Wasn’t your fault... I know that now. It was mine.”

“Listen to me, Dean.” Castiel caught Dean’s gaze and held it. “This… incident? It was not your fault. Regardless of context, nothing you did or didn’t do prompted that kind of treatment because you didn’t deserve it.” Bringing Dean’s hand to his lips, Castiel brushed a kiss to his knuckles. “You’re worth more than you realize.” 

Dean let out an acerbic laugh and took his hand back. “Nobody deserves it. I’ve just learned enough not to argue anymore.” He said it with all the weight of a world weary traveller. Jaded didn’t suit someone so young. “‘Sides, might as well be me than someone else,” he added, as he removed himself bodily to sit on the edge of the bed. 

Castiel, ever the wordsmith, still didn’t know what to say.

After a minute, Dean stood and decided to busy himself. He puttered around the room cleaning up astray clothing. “So, to what do I owe the honor of your company? Or maybe, to whom.” As he folded things, he avoided Castiel’s patented look of concern and found a pair of underpants to adorn himself with; not that it mattered, the shirt was so big he was drowning in it. 

“What do you mean?”

Dean chuckled. “Lord knows you didn’t find me all on your own. So what changed your mind?”

Tossing Castiel’s clothes at him, Dean waited for a good answer. Castiel just didn’t have one for him. His head was still reeling from emotional and hormonal whiplash, but he wanted to try this new thing out: transparency. He’d heard good things about it. 

“Um,” he started, working on a way to phrase himself that wouldn’t land him into further turmoil. He reached for his blue dress shirt and fingered at one of the buttons. “I’d been out drinking with a friend down at that new club. Heavenly Host or what have you. He’d been begging me to go with him for weeks and the stars finally aligned in our favor. Unfortunately, we came upon a bit of a drunken disagreement. Not really seeing eye to eye on some things,” to put it simply, “Some harsh things were said, mostly by me, and ultimately, we parted ways on fairly dismal terms.” Castiel mulled over his obvious knack for the English language. He was always throwing himself under the bus by opening his mouth, wasn’t he? “Of course, this was before I threw up next to a dumpster and it started to downpour.” He looked over to Dean where he’d stopped rummaging through a dresser drawer. “And that’s when my feet brought me to you,” he amended with a weak smile. 

Truthfully, the story didn’t paint him in a very good light. Castiel knew now, regret felt exactly like this.

“I’m assuming by ‘friend’ you’re referring to Professor Roche?”

“That would be the one, yes. Though, perhaps not anymore. I guess I have myself to blame there.”

“Nice.” Dean offered a wry twitch of his lips to the floor. “So, what, is this like a routine thing for you or somethin’?” 

Looking profoundly lost, Castiel asked again, “What do you mean?”

Dean reproached him. “You know what I mean.” 

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“You know, this.” He gestured between them. Rubbing his hands over his face and into his hair, Dean heaved a worn out sigh. “Do you fuck all your students, Professor Novak?”

Castiel wasn’t sure whether to be offended by the implication or the oddly placed formality. Maybe the juxtaposition of the two. If Castiel had learned anything about Dean by now, it should have been to let well enough alone because Dean never seemed to back down once he got a little fight in him. 

“Do you insist on seducing all of your professors, Mr. Winchester?” he countered.

Dean huffed a laugh and shook his head before continuing to pick up. “Only the dick ones.” Once it dawned on him there were no more clothes left to tidy, he set his hands on his hips and stared at Castiel as he shrugged into his blue dress shirt. “So why me, then?”

There it was. The million dollar question. Castiel still didn’t have a good answer. 

“You’re... different,” he said, as he went up the row of buttons with nimble fingers. He idly noted Dean watching his fingers, but pressed on. “You’re also persistent,” he joked. He stood to draw his pants up his legs and fasten his belt. Dean watched that too. 

Coming around the end of the bed, Castiel approached him carefully as not to spook him or cause him to strike, and he drew Dean in by the hips. “I meant what I said, you know. This wasn’t just because I’d been drinking. I’m prone to making stupid choices, but coming to you last night wasn’t one of them.” He wrapped his arms around him, leaning in to press his stubbled cheek to Dean’s smooth one, and breathed softly against the side of Dean’s face. “I’ve had dreams about you since the first time I set my eyes on you. That wasn’t a lie. I think about you often enough,” he murmured. “Quite frankly, I’d had a terrible evening and I sought you out. Seeing you seemed like the most important thing I needed to do in that moment, despite knowing full well I was probably the last person you wanted to see. Do you know why that is?”

“Because you’re a self absorbed asshole?” Castiel might’ve taken offense if he couldn’t feel the muscles in Dean’s cheek twitching with the beginnings of a shit-eating grin. And also if it weren’t the truth. 

“Yes,” Castiel half-joked. “But also because my subconscious told me I needed to find you. Because it knew being around you, in any capacity, was better than any alternative.” Castiel let slip a smile against his temple. “I’m inexplicably drawn to you, Dean. I don’t much care to figure out why.”

When Castiel pulled away, Dean had that same look on his face. Like Castiel apparated out of thin air to grant his every wish. But before he could say anything meaningful back there was the distant jangling of keys and the front door of the apartment was clicking shut.

“Yo, Dean,” a deep, male voice called. “You in?”

“Shit,” was all Dean muttered. 

Castiel looked towards the closed bedroom door. “Dean, who is that?”

“It’s, uh, my roommate.”

Castiel scanned the bedroom they were standing in and thought back to the layout of the apartment in the dark. There was only the one bedroom. He was sure of it.

“Dean?” the voice called again.

Dean met his eyes and steeled himself. “Yeah, hang on!”

But before they made to move, the bedroom door knob was turning. “Whoa,” the man said, covering his eyes and spinning back around to face the living room. “Didn’t realize we had company.”

Dean let out exasperated sigh. “Benny, we’re wearing clothes. You can turn around.”

The man, Benny, turned around. Castiel recognized him. He was the bartender and he was looking Castiel up and down like he was sizing him up and weighing him.

“Well, if mine eyes do deceive me. It’s the sad sack from the bar!” Benny donned a wolfish grin. “Hittin’ a little below your age bracket, aren’t you? You tryna be Dean’s new daddy or somethin’?” Offhandedly to Dean, he added, “Nice shirt.”

Castiel tilted his head. “I am not Dean’s father.”

Benny howled with laughter. “You’re kiddin’ me!” He looked to Dean. “He’s kiddin’, ain’t he?” 

Dean just hid his face behind his hands out of embarrassment.

Propping himself against the door frame, Benny crossed his legs at the ankle, arms folding over his chest, as he surveyed the room. Undoubtedly, his sights landed on the rumpled bedding. “Looks like you two had some fun,” he said with a nod to the bed and raised eyebrows.

Castiel wasn’t sure what to say. Were they a couple? No, he was straight. He had a girlfriend. Castiel was utterly lost. 

“So is this what you do while I’m gone?” Benny raised his palms at Dean’s annoyed glare. “I mean, I figured you were huffin’ my sheets and wearin’ my clothes... Just didn’t realize you were invitin’ people back to fuck in my bed on top of it,” he teased.

“Dude.” Dean rolled his eyes and suppressed a long-suffering groan. “Just fuck off.”

“Smells like you two already did.” His lips curled into a smile.

Dean scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck and blew out a deep breath. His face looked ten degrees warmer than the rest of him. “Look, man, I’m sorry. I swear I’ll go to the laundromat later today, on me.”

Benny laughed again. He obviously found this far too amusing for them to be involved, but that didn’t explain why there was only one bed. “Your damn well right it’s on you.” He started to walk back out towards the kitchen before he rounded back. “And for the record, no more borrowing my clothes.”

Reaching for the closest object, a shoe, Dean chucked it at the door to chase him away. He turned back to Castiel looking wholly embarrassed. “Sorry… about him,” he said, inclining his head towards the door, “He’s just an asshole.”

Castiel’s mouth curved up in vague reassurance. He thought about how he’d said the exact same thing just last night. “I’m well acquainted with the feeling.” Pulling his phone out of his jean pocket, Castiel noted the time and the fact he had no groveling texts from Balthazar. It was well past his cat’s breakfast anyway that was for sure. “I hate to say this, but I think it’s time I should be getting home. Michelangelo has probably resorted to destroying all of my prized possessions as retribution.”

Dean stared at him curiously before it clicked. “Oh, right. The cat.” 

“No, the Ninja Turtle,” Castiel quipped in a serious tone.

Dean threw his head back and laughed despite the joke not being very funny at all. Castiel would tell a million more terrible jokes if it meant he could see the way he beamed again.

They traded smiles and Dean walked with him across the living room towards the front door. They both ignored Benny who was sat on the sofa with his bare feet propped up on the coffee table, noisily slurping a bowl of cereal. As they passed, Castiel took stock of the lumpy bed pillow propped on one end of the couch along with the quilted blanket folded next to it, but he didn’t mention it. It wasn’t his place. As they went out onto the hallway landing. A muffled, “Bye, Daddy,” could be heard as they closed the door behind them. 

Dean refrained an eye roll and awkwardly toed the stained, grey carpet for a moment before he looked up. “So, um, I guess I’ll see you in class?”

“Yes, you will. And the rest of the classes that follow it, I imagine. I’ll be the one in the front of the room.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, I got that.”

There was a pregnant pause. Castiel felt surprisingly hesitant to leave now that he was actually faced with the prospect. “Well, goodbye, Dean.” Exchanging oddly bashful glances at one another, Castiel leaned in to give Dean a quick peck on the cheek like they were children in the school playground. He made to turn and head down the stairs, but Dean made to stop him with a hand on the crook of his arm.

“Wait,” he exclaimed, before disappearing into the apartment. Moments later, he came back carrying an armful of brown leather. “Almost forgot your jacket.” He offered it out to him if not a bit awkwardly. 

Castiel eyed it and then Dean. He thought of the ragged denim jacket Dean tended to wear to class and the steadily declining temperatures. Also, somewhere in the back of his mind, the fact Balthazar had forced him to buy it despite all his protests tipped the scales. Without further thought, he simply said, “Keep it.”

Confusion twisted Dean’s face. “What?”

“Keep it.”

“What, like trading clothes or some shit? Isn’t that… I dunno. A little gay?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes and tilted his head curiously at his choice of phrasing. Especially given he was apparently wearing his straight friend’s t-shirt. “Keeping a jacket? No, I don’t think so. The anal sex on the other hand…”

Dean threw his head back again with a boisterous laugh and shoved at Castiel’s shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

Castiel hummed. “Tell me something, Dean. Have you ever ridden a motorcycle?”

Dean tried to follow. “Uh, once, when I was in high school... Why?”

“Good. Because I never have. Already you’re more qualified to wear it than I am. And truth be told, I think it would suit you better than it does myself.”

“I dunno, I think you look pretty good in it,” he admitted almost shyly.

“Then consider it on loan.”

Dean toyed with it between his fists, but finally just went with it. He shrugged a shoulder. “Okay. Sure, why not?” He was staring down at the thing like he was trying to puzzle together its existence between his fingers.

Castiel turned to head down the stairs again. He made it a couple steps and Dean turned to head back into his apartment when Castiel stopped one last time. “Oh, and Dean?”

Turning his head, Dean paused in the doorway.

“You can have an extra week.” With a shit-eating grin of his own, he added, “See you next Tuesday, Mr. Winchester.”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head fondly enough this time. “Anyone ever tell you your jokes are awful?”

“Constantly,” he replied, and then he turned to continue on his way. And once he came to the twist in the stairwell he heard Dean utter a simple, “See ya, Cas,” before he closed the apartment door.

Castiel could really get used to that.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold, an update!

Dean was practically glued to the spot watching Castiel walk away. He hadn't paid it much mind before, but those jeans were hugging all the right places and that blue shirt definitely wasn't hurting anything either. “See ya, Cas,” he absently murmured, clutching the leather jacket between his fists. 

It was probably the most expensive thing he'd ever been allowed to touch if he was placing bets. The heady scent of Castiel’s cologne still clung to the creases and some small, embarrassing part of him wanted to lift it to his nose and inhale, but he willfully resisted. 

When the top of Castiel’s disheveled head disappeared, Dean finally convinced himself to stop leaning against the door and to actually open it instead. He wasn’t really sure what to make of the bizarre gesture, but he didn’t really want to analyze it to death either. Thinking too hard about any of this seemed like a bad idea, and he desperately wanted to hold on to this weirdly warm, buzzing feeling blooming behind his ribcage thinking about all the things Castiel said. Whispering sweet nothings. The way he touched him. Looked at him. Maybe actually saw him -- the real him -- not some weird fantasy version or victim to circumstance. Dean had enough trouble figuring that out himself, to be honest.

Twisting the knob, he pushed off the door and headed back inside the apartment, only to be met by Benny's way too amused face looking on while he ate his soggy bowl of Count Chocula.

"You two seem mighty friendly," he noted around a particularly sloppy bite. The brown milk ran down into his bristly beard and he wiped it with the back of his sleeve. He pointed his spoon to the jacket clutched between Dean’s hands. “Daddy give you a present? You a kept man now?”

Apparently, that warm feeling wasn’t meant to stick around. 

Dean scowled as he turned to hang Castiel’s jacket up in the coat closet. Turning back to face him, Dean asked, “Dude, what the hell was that?” 

“The hell was what?”

“Oh, I dunno, that whole alpha male bullshit you just pulled. Was that really necessary?”

Benny hummed in consideration. “I should be askin’ you that question, more like. The hell were you thinkin’?”

“Oh, please,” huffed Dean, rolling his eyes. “I already said I’d go to the laundromat.” He returned his attentions to the closet, rummaging around for one of his own t-shirts, and he pulled one on while tossing Benny’s Pink Floyd shirt towards the couch where he sat. Then, he found a pair of jeans and pulled those on as well.

“C’mon, Dean. I mean, bringin’ home a random customer like that? Showin’ ‘im where you live? I’m sure you’re aware how drunk that sonuvabitch was last night too, or do you need me to spell it out for you? Dude had two drinks in the span of twenty minutes, not to mention he showed up already drunk. Ash said some drunk asshole was gettin’ all high’n’mighty with him too. I don’t s’pose you know who that mighta been?”

Dean bristled at the insinuation he wasn’t capable of making his own decisions. He definitely didn’t need to be talked at like he was a fucking child either. Especially not by Benny of all people. 

“He isn’t random,” Dean retorted, “and I’m not friggin’ stupid, Benny! I knew he was drunk.”

“Oh, you knew? Yeah, cuz that makes it better.” Benny shot him a pointed look, then his head turned away dumbly like this was a shitty reality show and he was looking into the hidden camera. “Can’t get much more stupid than that, Dean.”

It wasn’t like Benny was the posterboy for good intentions; he was no saint. Who was he to even talk?

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, well, if he was so drunk, why were you servin’ him two drinks in twenty minutes then? Not like he got ‘em himself.”

With a shake of his head, Benny said, “Because I’d rather not have Crowley fire me for turnin’ away a payin’ customer, thank you very much. ‘Sides, I watered ‘em down! But, y’know, while we’re on the subject… Should I even ask how a drunk dude twice your age payin’ for handies is a close enough acquaintance not to be considered random?”

Well, when it was laid out like that, it didn’t sound that great. Not that the real reason would sound any better. The muscles in Dean’s jaw were ticking, but he held Benny’s gaze across the room. Finally, he blurted, “‘Cuz I just know him, okay? What’s it matter?”

Benny rolled his eyes. “Cuz you just know him,” he parroted. “Well, if you two are so close, how come I’ve never seen him around then, huh?”

“Because,” he blustered, “He’s from class, alright!”

“Class? That dude’s like fuckin’ forty!” It took about thirty seconds, but Benny’s brain finally connected the dots. “Jesus Christ, Dean! You’re fuckin’ with me right now...” At Dean’s answering silence, Benny just shook his head and let out a mirthless chuckle. “This just keeps on gettin’ better,” he muttered to himself. Placing his bowl down on the table, he threw his hands up. “You wanna land yourself in shit, be my guest.” 

“It's not a big deal,” he insisted. “And hey, speaking of being a guest, thanks for blowin’ my cover too. Really had to make me look like a charity case in front of him, didn't you?” 

Letting Castiel see where he lived was bad enough. Having him find out he was couchsurfing might have been priceless if it weren’t more pathetic than anything else. The dude probably had some pristine, spacious apartment on the fancy side of town. Nothing close to the hovel this place was.

“I ain’t blowin’ nothin’ of yours,” snarked Benny. “Not my fault you lied, brother. You just better hope Crowley don’t find out. You’re already on his shit list most of the time anyway, don’t need this on top of it.”

“What’s Crowley got to do with it? He’s the asshole that forces us to give out happy endings in the first place. What’s he care if I fuck somebody?”

“Because he gets money for the happy endings, not for you giving out whatever else for free,” Benny helpfully supplied.

Of course. Dean was only as valuable as the dollars he brought in. He snorted. “Please, like Crowley would fire me. That smarmy bastard needs me.”

“That so? He tell you that?”

“Course not, but he doesn’t have to. Who else is gonna pull in all the old perverts? They’re the ones forking over the big bucks. Besides, I’m the only one he’s got limber enough to shave behind their own friggin’ balls and what Crowley doesn’t know won’t hurt him. If he hasn’t found out yet, he’s not going to, unless somebody tells him. I doubt Ash would. Nobody else was even payin’ attention. That leaves you. So, are you gonna tell him?”

Benny pulled a face. “Of course I’m not!” He heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I’m just try’na look out for you, brother. Someone’s got to.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, brushing off the sentiment. He didn’t need looking after, he’d been looking out for himself and Sam his entire life. He was still annoyed, but he appreciated Benny’s concern even if he didn’t appreciate the rest. 

Making his way over to plop himself down on the opposite side of the couch, Dean tried his best not to flinch when his ass made contact with the seat cushion. Benny didn’t say anything about it so he hoped that meant he was in the clear at least. They sat in relatively companionable silence save for Benny returning to noisily slurp the remaining sugar flavored milk from his bowl. 

After a couple of awkward minutes, Benny’s leg was nudging his thigh. “Hey, y’know what this reminds me of?” He was preemptively biting his lip to hold in a laugh.

“Ugh.” Dean dramatically collapsed sideways into his pillow and smothered himself with it. Voice thoroughly muffled, he groaned, “Do I even wanna know?”

Benny set his bowl down again as he settled back into the couch cushions. “Remember that time we all got wasted at Bela Talbot's house party?”

Dean righted himself only to shoot Benny a withering glare. “Oh you mean the time I lost my v-card to Lisa Braeden in the backseat of my dad’s Impala and all you fuckin’ assholes decided to open the door right when I blew my load? Huh, I dunno. Vaguely rings a bell." That was one memory he definitely tried to push into the far recesses of his mind. Well, the Benny part, not the Lisa part. She’d been really bendy and forgiving. And Dean really missed that damn car all of a sudden.

Benny's impish smirk involuntarily cracked and his restrained giggles turned into obnoxious guffawing at the memory and at Dean’s face. Clutching at his sides like he was living it all over again, he slumped over his knees and pointed a finger at Dean. "So you do remember,” he wheezed, scrubbing a hand over his pink face.

“Yeah, whatever, yuck it up. This trip down memory lane have a point or nah?”

“Oh, oh, oh, and then that time with Rhonda fuckin’ Hurley when we pantsed you.” His shoulder were practically vibrating with restraint. “You got so spooked you almost sprained your damn ankle.”

Seeing Benny’s face while he was mid-orgasm wasn’t really something Dean ever wanted to experience once, let alone twice. Definitely wasn’t trying to see it again if he could help it and he was beyond grateful that he’d only shown up afterwards this time. 

Maybe someone really was looking out for him, he wondered.

Dean wasn’t impressed though. “You done?”

Benny barked another laugh at Dean’s growing displeasure. “For Christ sake Dean, you were in a goddamn closet and you had her friggin’ panties on! You'd have to be stupid not to find the irony-- or the ironing board, I guess.”

"God, y’know, a better question would be why do you keep showin’ up every time I get laid?"

Benny shrugged, but his eyes were still alight with amusement at Dean’s expense. “Guess I just like catchin’ you with your pants down,” he said with an overzealous wink. “In my defense, you did just use my bed.”

“Sorry,” Dean muttered, his cheeks warming. “Well, lucky for you, you get to see my ass practically every other day now,” he said, lips pulling into a thin smile. “I dunno who you pissed off to deserve that.”

Benny quirked his head. “True, ‘cept these days I definitely try not to look if I can help it. No offense, man.”

Dean appreciated that particular sentiment for what it was. He really didn't want to think about Benny watching him when they went to work later.

Clapping a hand to Dean’s chest, Benny stood and brought his cereal bowl to the sink, rinsing it out with the sponge. Over his shoulder, Benny continued, “But hey listen, I'm gonna ask you the same thing now as I did then: Did ya’ll wrap it up?”

Dean groaned. “Jesus, Benny.”

“Don't want you to catch none of them cooties. Lord knows a couple of the other guys are only one handshake away from the plague or some shit.”

“Yeah, sure, just a ‘handshake’.” With a sigh, “Well, I should probably get goin’.” Crossing back to the living room, Benny seemed deep in thought and Dean was wary of it. “What now?” He asked, preemptively narrowing his eyes.

Scratching his bearded cheek, Benny looked up at him. “Oh, I was just gonna tell you, I wash my underwear in cold water, but I definitely want the bedding in hot,” he said with a grin.

Dean groaned. 

“No, like, boil the shit out of that thing- literally.”

“Yeah, I got it.” Dean shot him an annoyed glare as he got to his feet. “You’re hilarious, by the way,” he deadpanned.

Benny kept on grinning. Obviously way too pleased with himself. 

Making his way into the bathroom, Dean gathered up the dirty, damp towels off the tile floor and shoved them into his laundry basket. Carrying it into the living room, he asked, “Hey, why you home already anyway?” It wasn’t even lunch time yet if Dean’s stomach was anything to go by. “Andrea kick your ass to the curb, or what?” 

“Not in so many words,” he said with a laugh. “She just had places to be this afternoon.”

“Oh. Well, good,” Dean decided. “She’s fiesty, I like her.”

Benny smiled, more sincere now than anything. “Yeah, me too.”

With a perfunctory nod, Dean continued into Benny’s room, gathering up the bedding off the mattress. The pillowcases still had subtle notes of coconut shampoo masking the undertones of Benny’s aftershave. It was an odd combination, but the only thing Dean was thinking about was the way Castiel’s dark tufts of hair had felt between his fingers and the way his mouth felt around his dick. With a reluctant groan, he stuffed the bedding into Benny’s half-full hamper before he managed to work up another boner. How he was going to manage to drag both baskets the couple blocks down to the laundromat, he hadn’t the faintest clue. 

Benny was back sitting on the couch again watching the latest episode of Game of Thrones on his phone when Dean stopped in front of him again, eyebrows pinching. He cleared his uncomfortably dry throat and Benny paused his show, looking up in question.

An absurd question fell out of his mouth then. “So, you don’t… You don’t actually care that I fucked a dude, right?” It was stupid to ask in retrospect, but shame was almost second nature to Dean. He just needed to be sure.

The face Benny gave him confirmed just how stupid the question really was. “Dean, you do realize we work at a gay club, right? Why on God’s green earth would I give a shit about that?” 

Dean chewed his lip and shrugged a shoulder. “I dunno.”

To emphasize his point, Benny added, “Hell, I probably get propositioned for sex by half the guys that come to the bar. Doesn’t bother me none. If it did, I’d sure as hell have the wrong job. You really worried about that?”

Dean huffed an awkward laugh. Subconsciously, he must have been worried, but he didn’t really have any reason to be. Not since moving out to the city anyway. Not since getting away from his father. He shook his head. “Nah, man, not really. Just curious.”

Benny regarded him softer now and Dean kind of hated it. It was too close to pity, but Benny knew all about John. Even met him a handful of times too. “S’long as you don’t do it in my bed again, you could fuck whoever or whatever you wanted for all I care... just be smart about it,” he added, with a pointed look.

“Yeah,” Dean breathed. “Yeah, I get that. Thanks, man.”

“Sure thing.” Benny directed his attention back to his phone again, but didn’t immediately hit play. Instead, he looked back up to Dean who was sliding his bare feet into a pair of ugly slip-on sandals. As he was pocketing his phone and wallet, Benny said, “Hey, wait a minute... you said ‘fucked’.”

“Yeah… And?”

“You're walkin’ kinda funny there, brother. You mean to tell me you weren’t the catcher?”

“Fuckin’ hell, Benny.” Dean groaned, painfully abstaining from rolling his eyes, as he willed himself to open the apartment door.

Benny laughed obnoxiously.

“Yeah, bye. I’m leaving now,” he muttered, dragging the hampers onto the landing and closing the door behind him. Feeling around in his jean pockets, he realized just as quickly he forgot the bag of quarters.

“That was quick,” Benny joked when Dean appeared again.

“Quarters,” he explained.

He ducked back in to grab the bag of change off the kitchen counter, but stilled upon seeing the greasy Jade Garden menu riddled with familiar scratched out scribbles. Taking it in hand, the only legible piece of information he could discern through the scratched out ink was a cellphone number. Dean snorted to himself as he considered the menu. 

So he really was going to leave, not that it was at all surprising. Dean wasn’t that naive. He suspected as much, it just sucked to have tangible evidence. Then again, most people didn’t feel compelled to get fully dressed just to get a glass of water.

But he stayed, Dean reminded himself, as he stared blankly down at the numbers. He chewed his lip a moment, but ultimately decided to pull out his phone and enter the number into his contacts, filing it away under the name ‘Dick’. It was definitely too soon to send a text. He didn’t want to come off as clingy and weird, but he figured having the number seemed like it could come in handy later and, after he tossed the menu, he was out the door again, quarters in hand.

“Hey! Don't forget, hot water,” Benny hollered after him.

Tossing him the middle finger, Dean promptly slammed the door behind him, effectively cutting off the sounds of Benny giggling to himself from the couch.

^^^

Dean managed to make it to the laundromat with minimal mishaps; he only dumped the hampers once while going down the steps from the apartment, so he was considering that a victory all on its own. Normally when he went to the laundromat it was after busy hours so he could get some peace and quiet and use whatever and however many machines he wanted, but right now was peak business hours and it was a disaster as far as Dean was concerned. He’d somehow managed to snag two machines in the corner, but one of them had been making janky noises everytime it spun and Dean was just glad it’d been the one with his clothes instead of the one with Benny’s bedding.  
Count your blessings, or whatever.

While he waited for a second dryer to open up, he rested his head back on the sun-warmed storefront window and passed time fucking around on his phone for lack of anything better to do. The plastic chair he was sitting on was entirely unforgiving on his sore ass too, but it was the only place to sit and he’d been waiting too long to keep standing. A couple times he caught his thumb hovering over Castiel’s phone number, but he stopped himself from sending a text. Who knew if the guy was even home yet? 

He wasn’t really sure how to feel about Benny knowing who Castiel was to him either. Not that he was anything really, besides his professor and the guy that just fucked him, but in his head, he’d imagined anyone finding out about it to be a bigger bomb shell. Like a grenade instead of a firecracker. Maybe it was just because Benny wasn’t personally invested in Dean’s college life, or he was just trying to mind his own. Dean couldn’t decide, but in some small way it was a relief to know that he wasn’t alone in knowing. Not that he was going to gab to him about it like girls at a sleepover or anything. Just a way to relieve some of this burden of keeping things so close to his sleeve. And fuck, Benny genuinely did not care about the rest, even if he was an asshole. 

He bit his lip and forced himself to text Sam instead. The kid didn’t have anything interesting to report. Just homework. He was always doing his freaking homework.

At some point, there were a couple of angry soccer moms duking it out over who got the next washing machine, but Dean didn’t tell them he was finished. He wasn’t about to get his eyes scratched out by whoever didn’t win. They both had tacky acrylic nails too. No thank you. 

Eventually when he snagged another dryer, Dean spent the rest of the wait biding time precariously perched in his seat to take the pressure off his ass and offhandedly watching the staticy television set hung in the corner. He couldn't remember the last time he watched a TV that wasn't at this pisspoor laundromat. The intermittent sounds of the afternoon news report crackled and hissed through the speakers. The news anchor was droning on now about a local business getting shut down. A Korean nail salon on the other side of town handing out happy endings on the side, apparently. 

The irony wasn’t lost on him this time. 

Dean didn't know whether to laugh at it or cry because they had something in common, so he just gave the TV his half-assed attention and pulled out his phone again. 

He decided to send off a text to Charlie asking about that party he missed just for something else to do. Though in retrospect, he really didn’t feel like he’d missed anything. Last night had turned out infinitely better than he’d originally anticipated, all things considered.

** << Dean: hey how was the party?**

**> > Charles: OMG i’m so hungover, but it was amazeballs! U should have been there!**

Dean chuckled to himself, seeing the blurry selfie he’d received last night.

**< < Dean: i bet, u guys looked pretty smashed.**

**> > Charles: pfffffffft… we were ;)**

**< < Dean: lol thought so.**

Finally, his own load finished drying and he took to the folding station to sort through his clothes. He got an eyeful from one of the soccer moms as he sorted out his growing collection of panties off to the side of the table. Willing his eyes to stay down, he could feel his cheeks heating up at the scrutiny, but he tried his best to ignore the judgment clearly visible on her face. 

Fuck her, anyway. She wished she looked as good as Dean in a thong. Maybe like twenty years ago.

His phone vibrated again when he was halfway through with folding.

**> > Charles: don’t think ur getting off the hook so easy next time tho! Ur coming with, even if i have to call you out of work myself!**

**< < Dean: ya, don’t count on it lol glad u guys had fun tho.**

**> > Charles: UGH!!! ...I can’t WAIT to be done with this stupid paper btw**

Dean agreed, but then it suddenly occurred to him he unofficially got an extension for said paper just by taking Charlie’s advice to show Castiel his goods. 

**< < Dean: oh ya, guess who got an extension on their paper?**

He snorted to himself at the irony in that. He definitely hadn’t done much to warrant one. 

Just as he was finishing up folding and putting the clean clothes back into his laundry basket his phone buzzed again. 

**> > Charles: OMG WHAT HOW**

**> > Charles: i heard Prof Novak doesn’t even give those out**

**> > Charles: how the hell did you do it!? Tell me ur ways right now!**

**< < Dean: lol a magician never reveals his secrets**

Mulling it over, Dean sent another text.

**< < Dean: i’m not gonna take it tho. **

**> > Charles: UM EXCUSE ME??? Why tf not!**

**< < Dean: becuz it’s my own damn fault i haven’t got it done. It’s called taking responsibility. **

**> > Charles: oh ok forgive me, i had no idea**

The eyeroll emojis said everything they needed to.

**> > Charles: that’s very honest of u tho. Love u. <3**

**< < Dean: i know :)**

He was smiling down at his phone until the obnoxious buzzer sounded on Benny’s shit.

^^^

About half a block down from the laundromat, Dean had to stop for the crosswalk. He pushed the walk button and waited for the traffic to clear. Standing there on the sidewalk, he tried his best to mind his own goddamn business, but apparently, he had no such luck.

It was the homeless dude, Ronald, that was always bumming around this street, especially near the club. Sometimes, on days he was feeling particularly generous, Dean would give him some food or some change, but he tried to avoid him more often than not. Not that he had a problem with homeless people. Hell, he basically was a homeless person himself, just with the luxury of knowing a guy who knows a guy who owns a building. Otherwise, he might’ve been laying out on the sidewalk right there with him probably ending up believing all the conspiracy theories Ronald spewed out to anybody willing to slow down enough to listen. His latest conspiracy was about chemtrails and how they were a ploy by the U.S. government to attempt total mind control over the civilian workforce… or some bullshit like that. 

Dean didn’t have much interest in conspiracies though, real life was stressful enough. He just tried not to be the one to slow down for it. He also relished the days where Ronald made a different corner his home just to avoid those interactions altogether. 

Right now, Ronald was hobbling over to him, staring intently at the side of Dean’s face while he resolutely kept his sights on his phone screen. He could smell him more than he could see him; The worn-out, sun-bleached coat wrapped around him smelled like stale cat piss of all things, but he was harmless, if not just this side of crazy. 

“What’s up, Ron?” Dean finally asked, when it seemed like the guy wasn’t going to forfeit the staring contest.

Ronald leaned in conspiratorially and whispered real close, “Have I ever told you about the mandroids?”

Oh, god. Dean scrubbed a palm over his face and pinched his eyes shut. Blinking wide eyes at him, Dean let his hand drop to grip his laundry basket handles and feigned a small smile of feigned polite interest. “...Mandroids?” He was kicking himself already for asking. He had to hold his breath at the overwhelming smell of piss and halitosis while Ronald went on some incomprehensible, nonsensical tangent.

“Their eyes,” he asserted at the end. “That’s how you’ll know. They change. They’re not human, they look like you and me, but they’re not like us at all. You can only see them if you’re looking for them, but you’ll know when you do.”

Dean gaped at him, eyebrows bunching, before he remembered to close his mouth. What the fuck was this guy on? “You don’t say,” he remembered to say. 

“They don’t want us to know because they’re using them to spy on us,” he asserted low. “They know where you live and what you’re doing. Right. Now.”

Nodding along, Dean inched away as soon as there was a lull in his spiel. “I’ll definitely be on the lookout for that, buddy, thanks,” he said in a rush of breath. The air filling his lungs stung a little bit, but it was preferable to asphyxiation. 

Just then the walk sign turned and Dean started scrambling to get away, but looking back he honestly felt bad for the dude. He hesitated in his tracks. “Hey... you wanna wash that coat, man? I’ll spot you the change,” he said, shaking the bag of quarters in his pocket. It was literally the least he could do.

Skeptically, Ronald narrowed his eyes at the bag and then at Dean, but after what must have been careful consideration, he sniffed himself and nodded.

Dean nodded back. “Awesome.” He handed him over a couple bucks in quarters and if he threw in a few extra for something to eat, nobody else really had to know. Not that Ronald was a life lesson or anything, but seeing him always reminded Dean his life could be way worse.

On his walk back to the apartment, Dean finally decided on a damn topic for that godforsaken paper once and for all. All things considered, Dean was cautiously feeling pretty good for the first time in god knew how long and he wasn’t about to look that gift horse in the mouth either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long. I had to compose a list of all the plot threads I started in the first half of this story so that I could make a rough outline for the second half. Had to organize my thoughts and what have you. Thanks for staying with me.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't forget ya'll, I just had a lot going on, and I also decided not to make excuses because this is my fun hobby, not work, and I do it for myself lol

The fresh steam from his mug of chamomile tea swirled around his hand as he drank from it, looking out the bedroom window of his apartment. He set the mug down on the sill next to Michelangelo and traded it for a broken stick of charcoal, propping the drawing board up against his knee as he sunk back against the wall. 

He’d needed this: a morning set aside to commit to his art. The kitchen stool was digging into his ass as he rested his elbow against the sill to scratch behind the cat’s ear, but he chose to ignore it in favor of studying the water.

It was hypnotizing in its churning movement. The ocean waves were calm today. Sapphire blue smudged with black set against a placid skyline. Overcast. The mid morning lull of a Sunday morning. 

It should have been pathetic, but even this reminded him of Dean. 

The way his skin glowed in the morning. The smell of soap on his clean, freckled skin. The soft sounds of his breathing caressing Castiel’s chest. The slow way he’d rocked his hips in an act of quiet desperation.

He’d awoken that morning from a dream of him, wishing intensely that the young man had woken up next to him. Or rather, that he’d never left the cocoon they’d made for themselves, and that he never mentioned anything to make Dean pull away. That in itself was the real dream. But this was real life. How was he going to face him come Tuesday? What do you say in a situation like that?

Surely enough, Castiel became lost in the motion for the better part of an hour, sketching the waves in front of him with his mind miles away, but it was only then when he was pulled out by the vibrations of the phone in the pocket of his torn jeans. 

With a heavy sigh, Castiel removed the phone with his clean hand and turned it to see the screen.

It was his sister, Anna. 

He contemplated answering for too long.

The call ended on silent. 

She called again. 

Castiel ignored it as it reverberated against the sill of the open window.

“Hasn’t she ever heard of a voicemail,” he muttered to the cat as he reached over to scruff the fur of his cheek again. He purred his undoubted agreement.

Though, moments later, his phone dinged with a new alert noise. As luck would have it, it was the alert for an actual voicemail; not something Castiel was used to receiving if he were being honest. Mostly he didn’t enjoy speaking on the phone, but he didn’t have many people calling him on any sort of routine basis either.

Life was a lonely mistress, afterall.

He debated with himself for a few minutes, staring at the phone out the corner of his eye while he downed the rest of his tea now turned cold by the breeze. It was slightly bitter against his tongue. Decidedly, he made another cup, letting it steep on the counter for a full five minutes before returning to his bedroom and retaking his seat on the stool. 

Reluctantly, he pulled the phone back to himself when the tea was good and ready. Only the tea. 

He tapped the notification and hit the speaker button.

There was the sound of someone fumbling with something on the other end of the call. A tissue box, he realized once there was a soft trumpeting of someone blowing their nose. Castiel furrowed his brow and waited. 

“Hi, Cas,” Anna said in some watery kind of way. “It’s Anna...” She blew her nose again. “Listen, I know we haven’t spoken in a while… It’s just that--” A weak sob. “Cas, it’s dad---”

Castiel stopped the message and pushed the phone away with a skid. He really couldn’t catch a break this weekend, could he?

Michelangelo hopped off the sill and scurried away. 

Propping his elbows on his knees, Castiel buried his face in his hands, eyes pinching, and forced himself to breathe in even measured breaths. His fingers found their way to tangle in his pillow ruffled hair and he tugged. Hard. A pained, exasperated groan escaping between his locked teeth.

“Fuck,” he said to only himself. 

Minutely louder, another, “Fuck” escaped his lips and then he opened his eyes. 

Steeling himself against it, Castiel snatched the phone back and contemplated, thumb hovering over the button. Should he continue the message? He could probably guess the rest. He chewed the chapped skin on his lower lip until it tore, running his tongue along the prick of blood. 

He hit play again.

“---’s sick. And I know you two have never really been on the same page, but the doctors, they don’t know how much time there is and I just,” She exhaled hard. “I just think it would mean a lot to both of you if…”

Castiel inhaled a shuddering thing and deleted the message, pocketing the phone. Erased like it never happened. With an unsteady hand, he brought the tea to his lips and sipped to ground himself. Afterall, he’d expected this call eventually. 

The universe was many things. Sometimes, it was poetic.

The stupid cartoon bees on his mug were smiling at him as he drank even sips. He regarded them for a moment, thumbing at the smooth glaze, before going back to the kitchen, tossing it in the sink, and chipping the edge with a clatter as he sagged against the counter. 

Eventually, his fingers found their way to his hair again and then moved lower, scrubbing at his eyes, but when he pulled back he realized they were devoid of moisture. He wasn’t crying. He didn’t know what he was feeling, if he was feeling anything at all. 

Maybe that made him a bad person, he supposed, but he didn’t feel like a bad person either.

What he wanted to do just then was text Balthazar and go grab a table for brunch, his finger was already hovering over the name before he could think any better of it, but he couldn’t do that now could he? So he didn’t.

Without much else to do in the moment, he decided to return back to his spot by the window, and he reached for his charcoal again, pretending to sink back into his previous mindset like a cold bath.

^^^

Monday came and Castiel dutifully went to his Figure Drawing class. He arranged the still life props around the model again which had obviously been moved by the cleaning staff over the weekend and he forced himself to focus only on the task at hand.

He saw Dean for thirty seconds on his way back from the cafeteria. He was laughing with Charlie on the green again, but he didn’t see him pass. Castiel didn’t dare approach him out in the open. Dean was forbidden fruit here and he couldn’t risk what his body might do.

He ate lunch alone in his office that day. And he did so everyday for the rest of the week.

^^^

If you’d have asked Castiel a few days ago if Balthazar had been lying about the whole ‘not being friends’ ordeal, he might have given you a 50/50 wager that it was a bluff. 

As it stood, it seemed Balthazar had not only been telling the truth, he also seemed to be going out of his way to avoid Castiel altogether. Only once in the basement bathroom did they actually run into each other, but upon Castiel giving a curt acknowledgment beside him at the urinals, Balthazar snubbed him just as rudely, if not far too childishly.

And that had been on Tuesday.

Now it was Friday and nothing had changed at all, besides the prickling feeling blossoming underneath Castiel’s skin at the sight of Aaron sitting himself down in the seat next to Dean. 

Castiel averted his eyes, not allowing himself that latent feeling of jealousy forcing itself up between his ribs. What did he have to be jealous of anyway? Dean wasn’t his, and Aaron wasn’t anything to write home about either. 

He’d pushed all thoughts aside and set up his slideshow as efficiently as he knew how.

It was only a review session for the exam the following Tuesday. In theory, that should have been easy, except on top of everything else, this entire week Castiel had been finding it hard to concentrate on anything save one, Dean Winchester: sitting in the front row emanating the ripe air of casual smugness that had been proving hard for him to ignore even when he managed to ignore everything else. 

A knowing gleam sparkled in his eyes every time their gaze locked across the room, but Dean hadn’t approached him at all this week like Castiel had expected him to do. 

Or rather, anticipated. 

Hoped for, even. 

Castiel allowed himself that feeling now. He needed it now more than ever.

Instead, Dean simply sat back and observed and took notes and whispered to Charlie like everything was the same, so Castiel tried to act like everything was the same too, despite everything being wildly different. Because apparently they were two people that have had sex with each other, which was a fact sober Castiel was still struggling to process. And right now, Dean was staring at him like the cat who caught the canary and whom was taking great pride in watching the thing squirm before putting it out of its misery. 

But Castiel wasn’t as miserable as he’d thought he would be. 

That was the first revelation he’d had upon crossing the threshold to his apartment Saturday morning. In fact, despite everything, he was feeling better than he had in a very long time. You know, generally speaking. He just didn’t care to analyze why that was. 

The second revelation being that he wanted to do it again. ‘It’ being Dean. That he was hopeful for something for the first time in a while, despite knowing there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell he could allow himself that opportunity again wasn’t something left unnoticed either.

He wasn’t about to feel guilty for any of it either. He was working on autopilot and base instinct around Dean and there wasn’t any room for it. 

At the very least, the classroom was dark so none of his other students could see the way his face flushed every time Dean placed the end of that goddamn pen between his lips and the podium was proving very useful in obscuring anything else.

Halfway through, Dean was being pestered by the nuisance seated to his left and it took most of his will power not to march across the front of the room and drag him away by his ear or something equally ridiculous. He couldn’t hear what was being exchanged between them over his own incessant droning, but Aaron looked pathetically desperate. Though in regards to Dean, Castiel figured he wasn’t much better off.

He managed to fumble his way through the review to the best of his abilities and, finally, at the end of the lecture, he closed out his slideshow on the projector, shutting his laptop with a little more force than necessary. He instructed someone to get the light by the door and when they came on, he avoided Dean’s blatant amusement, choosing instead to acknowledge the rest of the room.

Clearing his hoarse throat, he announced, “If anyone needs assistance or clarification, please do not hesitate to write me an email or visit my office hours after class.”

He began to jerkily gather his things from the podium as his students began packing up theirs, but then someone was attempting to get his attention, waving their hands rapidly over their head. 

“Um, Professor Novak,” the girl, maybe Beth or something like it, hesitated.

She managed to catch his attention as he looked up from the podium and he inclined his chin in silent question.

She squeaked, “What about our papers?”

“Right. Of course.” The fucking papers. How could he forget those? 

Castiel may as well have facepalmed then and there. He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten, but then again, he’d had more insistent things on his mind these last few days, even if he didn’t entertain them. 

“Please,” he choked out to the room, “Before you go, I’d like you to deposit your finished papers on the podium! Anyone that leaves without doing so will be automatically docked ten points!”

The demand was met with completely expected groans, probably half directed at himself for making them do the assignment and the other half at Beth for being the narc who reminded the absent-minded professor of his own syllabus, inevitably screwing someone else over in the process. 

The students formed a chaotic line in front of the podium. 

Beth was first, naturally, coyly placing hers down with a shy smile before scurrying away. He noted the name and refrained from rolling his eyes. 

‘Becky’, he made a mental note. 

One day he would learn their names, probably when it was too late to matter.

The remainder of the class dropped theirs too, each one passing with an interesting array of facial expressions to match; those were always a good indicator of what was in store for him when it came to grading them over the weekend.

Once the room cleared, Castiel couldn’t help notice Dean lingering by the podium. Because of course he was. Castiel was officially having that kind of week and he was convinced Dean could sniff out those kind of moments like a bloodhound. At least this time he was alone.

“Mr. Winchester,” he acknowledged, sparing him a passing glance while he continued gathering his belongings. 

He wasn’t being petty that Dean hadn’t reached out to him. He wasn’t.

“Professor Novak,” Dean returned, paper clutched in his hands with a self-satisfied grin tugging his lips. When his smile wasn’t met with one in return, it slipped. “You seem like you’re a little on edge this week. Somethin’ wrong?”

Castiel rolled his eyes, but didn’t meet Dean’s.

Was something wrong?

For starters, yes. More than one thing, in fact.

It was finally starting to catch up to him exactly what transpired over the weekend. He’d not only fucked his student, he’d lost someone to confide in in the process. Balthazar still hadn’t sent any texts offering out an apology. And Castiel really wasn’t expecting one, but he was still hoping for one anyway. He just didn’t want to be the one to hold up the white flag. 

And then there was Dean. Standing before him with that genuine look of concern, like he deserved that kind of affection from the young man at all. And for what? Providing him with the bare minimum in terms of human decency? 

Not to mention, the multiple missed calls he’d received again from his sister that morning. Missed due to the fact he blatantly ignored them. He was essentially sitting on a ticking time bomb with no one else to help diffuse the situation, but at the end of the day, what was the difference? 

So, to say the least, there were a couple things ‘wrong’. 

And he was getting a migraine. 

And the chicken salad he ate for lunch had gone bad three days ago.

But he didn't tell Dean any of this, of course.

Dean smirked. “Y’know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say for a minute there, you were a little jealous.”

“Jealous?” Castiel scoffed. “Jealous of what?”

Dean cast him an intentioned stare, dripping with implication. “Beats me,” he said with a phony sense of casualness. At Castiel’s still pissy face, he sighed. “He was just asking me about the paper, dude. Relax. After everything, you really think I’d do that again? Y’know I meant what I said too.”

‘After everything.’ 

Poorly planned apologies and drunken sex counted for a lot in Dean’s book apparently, for someone that claimed it wasn't a ‘big deal’. That broke Castiel’s heart a little more than it should have in the moment, but he didn’t show it. Besides, what must Dean think of him? He was that big of a jealous asshole to be noticed? To be the cause of this sour mood? 

Well, he supposed he wasn’t wrong.

Refusing to break so easily, Castiel quirked his head and ignored the probing question because maybe some insecure part of him really did think that. “Is that for me?” he asked instead, raising a brow and gesturing to the paper still in his hands.

Dean huffed a weary laugh at the redirection. “Well, uh, maybe... Unless you think some other guy would enjoy 5,000 words of nonsense written by a guy that’s probably got no business talkin’ about anything. If not... then yeah, it’s for you.”

“Nonsense? I highly doubt that.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Surprised by your intellect? Not at all. You’re a very intelligent student, Dean.” When it looked like Dean was about to object, he pressed on: “What I am surprised by is the fact you didn’t make use of your extension. I don’t give those out so easily, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

Resting the paper down on the stack, Dean considered it and snorted. “I mean, I wasn’t sure if you were for real. Just didn’t want special treatment,” he said tapping the tips of his fingers against the stack.

“Special treatment,” Castiel repeated. He approached the podium and collected the stack of papers, shoving them into a manila folder, and subsequently shoving said folder into his messenger bag. “I hope my offer didn’t offend you...” he said more to his bag than to Dean. “That was not my intention.”

“Nah, just wanted to do it the right way,” he said. 

“Of course.” Castiel met his eyes for a moment and they exchanged an unreadable emotion, maybe subdued admiration, before Castiel returned his attentions to his bag. “I never doubted your ability to complete this assignment. I feel that should be clarified. I’m...” he paused to choose his words, “I’m proud of you, Dean.”

“Yeah? Well, that makes one of us.” Dean snorted again. “But, hey, listen. I mean it. I don’t want any special treatment. If my paper sucks ass, which I’m almost positive it does, then I want a fair grade. No sliding scales if you know what I mean. Understood?”

“What makes you believe I could be so easily swayed otherwise?” 

“Considering the circumstances, maybe the fact you gave me an extension at all.” 

Castiel blushed. “Point taken,” he digressed.

“I’m being serious.”

The corners of Castiel’s mouth twitched at just how serious Dean was being about this. “I understand, Dean. I am a professional, despite all evidence to the contrary, and I will give your paper the appropriate grade it deserves. No more, no less.”

“Good.” Dean seemed satisfied with that response, but he also seemed to be stalling. It seemed like he had something more to say.

“Is there something else I can help you with?”

Dean swallowed and toyed with the straps of his backpack. “Uh, no… I mean, not really... I just-- No? I mean, you sure you’re good?”

Castiel allowed a small smile to slip at his uncharacteristic awkwardness. It was unusual that Dean was lacking in bravado. “I’m fine, Dean. I hate to cut this short, but I really do need to be getting to my office hours. There’s a test next class, as you might have heard, and I need to make myself available to my other students.” 

“Right, yeah... available. Busy guy with stuff to do. I got it. Uh, no problem.”

“Unless of course you have any questions?” Castiel paused just in case.

“Nope, no questions. Just, uh, feel better, I guess?”

“I’ll try.” He pulled his messenger bag across his chest and shouldered his laptop carrier before gathering up his trenchcoat in his arms. “Well, if you change your mind, don’t hesitate to--”

“Send an email, yeah, yeah, I got it,” finished Dean with an exasperated eye roll.

Castiel fought off another small smile, but it slipped anyway. “Like I said, awfully fresh,” he murmured almost fondly as he headed for the door.

^^^

Unsurprisingly, he’d hardly had any students show up to his office hours. Either they were extremely competent in their understanding of the course material, or they were all too stupid to take advantage of the help he was willing to offer. He supposed he’d be able to tell who was who after he finished grading these papers over the weekend.

Finishing up with his work emails, he decided to set his sights on the manila folder sitting on the corner of his desk. Afterall, he only had about an hour left here before he was free to go home. He was beginning to feel the creeping presence of his migraine settling in behind his eyes, but he figured he might as well get a headstart.

He’d only gotten a few pages into Becky Rosen’s paper before his phone was ringing for the third time today. It reverberated loudly against his desk and he eyed it warily between words. It silenced and he resumed reading for all of five minutes until someone was knocking at his office door.

“Professor Novak?”

Castiel paused his reading and distractedly looked over the top of Becky’s paper. He placed it down, scooting himself away from the desk to swivel himself towards the door. He leaned back in his squeaky desk chair and gave his visitor approximately half of his undivided attention. 

It was Aaron Whatever His Last Name Was. Standing there in the doorway with his knuckle still hesitating on the door frame.

Removing his reading glasses, Castiel simply asked, “Yes?” When Aaron made no move one way or another, he sighed. He didn’t have time for this, not for someone like Aaron anyway. “Did you need something?”

Aaron fidgeted with his backpack, pulling the strap higher on his shoulder. “Yeah, I- um,” he stuttered. “Uh, it’s about the paper.”

Even his stuttering was grating against his migraine.

“Oh? What about it?” Absently, Castiel reached for the folder and started looking through the papers for Aaron’s anticipated stroke of genius.

Aaron hesitated a moment by the door before entering the office. Cautiously, he took a seat in the ripped chair across from Castiel. The one Balthazar hadn’t bothered to grace all week, Castiel absently noted. 

Clearing his throat, Aaron breathed hard through his nose and then he finally blurted out, “I don’t have it,” in a rush of breath.

Castiel slowly closed the folder, raising an eyebrow at him across the desk. “You don’t have it,” he parroted. “And why is that?” 

“I just don’t,” he said, scratching at his bristly beard. “I know you said we’d get docked, but I was hoping maybe I could hand it in on Tuesday?”

“The paper was due today,” he said dismissively.

“I know that, but I also heard you gave Dean an extension so I figured I'd ask.”

Castiel blinked. “Did he tell you that?”

“No… Charlie.”

“I see.” Castiel narrowed his eyes. “Well, Mr. Winchester handed his paper in to me at the end of class just like almost everyone else. He did not use his extension,” he said. “Not to mention, he asked before it was due.” 

Not to mention, the circumstances for his asking were far more convincing.

That didn’t dissuade Aaron’s hopeful face though. His beady little eyes were pleading. 

Did he know? Was this some sort of ploy to twist his arm? No, Aaron was too dense for that kind of underhanded maneuver. But Charlie could know. Her and Dean were practically glued at the hip. Dean wouldn’t do that, would he? He said he wouldn’t. Castiel was just being paranoid. 

Though, he continued to peer at him through suspicious slits anyway, resting his chin in his hand propped against the arm of the chair. At Aaron’s stupidly blank face, he pinched the bridge of his nose and prompted, “Let me ask you something: Were you not given ample time to complete the assignment?”

“Well, yes, but--”

Castiel hummed into his palm as he scrubbed it over his face, feeling his migraine beginning to worsen by the second. “Were my expectations for the assignment unreasonable to you?”

“No, but--”

“And had you attempted to come to me at any point over the last few weeks to tell me my assignment was too difficult for you?”

Aaron steeled himself and sighed. “No. That’s not it.”

“I believe I’ve stressed the impending due date of this paper more than sufficiently. Was the due date somehow unclear to you?”

“No, sir.” 

“Then, please, tell me, because I’d really love to know: Why do you think you deserve an extension?”

“I- I don’t know,” he murmured.

Channeling Dean, he said, “That makes two of us.” 

“I know I don’t have a good excuse, but I swear I will have it done for you by Tuesday.”

“Mmh.” Castiel held his hand up between them and listed off the days Friday through Tuesday. “That’s five days, not including the automatic ten points you’ve already lost. The highest grade you would earn is a 40. And that’s under the impression your paper would be flawless, of which I am highly doubtful. Honestly, you must be completely high to have the nerve to stroll in here and expect me to just hand you an extension with the lackluster performance you continuously put forth in my class. So please, Mr. Bass,” There it was! “For both of our sakes, do not waste my time.”

Aaron balked. “Are you fucking kidding me? What does that even mean!”

“It means: I do not. Want. Your paper. You’re off the hook.”

With wide eyes, Aaron simply gaped. “You can’t just… do that,” he stammered.

“Can’t I?” Castiel replaced his reading glasses and pulled himself back into the desk. Picking up Becky Rosen’s paper off the top of the stack, he flipped to what he supposed was his previous spot and pretended to resume reading. When Aaron made no move to get up, he asked, “I’m sorry, was there anything else you needed?”

“No,” he said shaking his head in vague disbelief, and then he finally got to his feet and headed for the door.

When he came to the doorway, Castiel added, “Oh, and Mr. Bass, you should consider using this weekend to study for the exam. You really can’t afford to fail it.”

Aaron nodded stiffly and then he was gone.

After a handful of minutes, Castiel decided with a huff to leave too. He forcefully shoved his belongings into his messenger bag again and shrugged on his trenchcoat, heading out the basement exit, and walked down to the bus stop, waiting as it started to rain. He cleared his mind and thought of what he wanted for dinner, remembering he had leftovers in the refrigerator he should really eat, when then the bus pulled up to the curb and Castiel boarded. Taking the seat towards the middle against the window, he watched the people on the sidewalks blur as they got moving.

^^^

Later that night, lying face up in his far-too-empty bed and soaking in the water stain on the ceiling, Castiel realized to himself briefly before falling asleep, that maybe he wasn’t as professional as he’d originally believed. And maybe, instead of the lack of feeling, he was feeling far too many things at once.


End file.
